


No Path Untaken

by WindSurfBabe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe
Summary: The duty of an obedient daughter is to marry the man her parents picked for her, especially if he’s rich and high-born. But the women of the line of Durin are as proud and stubborn as the men; while one chooses to comply, another runs from her fate, hoping to regain her freedom. Yet even the best-laid plans sometimes go awry, and happiness can be found under the most unlikely circumstances. Fíli/OC, Bofur/OC
Relationships: Bofur (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s), Fíli (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Alfirineth for beta-reading this story!  
> Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.  
> AU: this story takes place after BotFA, none of the heirs of Durin are dead.

Chapter 1

_Sleep my little baby-oh_ _  
Sleep until you waken  
When you wake you'll see the world  
If I'm not mistaken...  
  
Kiss a lover  
Dance a measure,  
Find your name  
And buried treasure...  
  
Face your life  
Its pain,   
Its pleasure,  
Leave no path untaken.   
  
_

_Neil Gaiman_

oOoOoOo

_\- Mîm -_

Mother clucked her tongue approvingly as the servants presented her with dress after dress. From time to time she would jerk her head, and the offending garment would be set aside. The pieces that deserved her approval were folded with care, wrapped in muslin for protection with a few sprigs of lavender on top, and lain in one of the vast coffers that stood by the bed.

Mîm watched the contents of her wardrobe disappear into their depths with a mix of dread and resignation. She’d found refuge on a chair, in the corner of the room, her legs tucked under her in a manner Mother wouldn’t have approved of, hadn’t she been so busy sorting Mîm’s clothes.

In her hand, the letter bearing the royal seal of Erebor glittered with gold, the delicate letters shimmering in the light of the lamps. She knew the words by heart, but the contents didn’t spark any more joy at the third reading than the first time she’d read it.

_“His Majesty, Thorin son of Thráin, King under the Mountain, sovereign of Erebor, hereby informs you of his decision to…”_

She sighed. Her parents had said that she’d been granted a great honor, the chance of a lifetime, but all Mîm saw was the end of the dreams she’d so carefully treasured. They were modest dreams, true, but she’d cherished them all the same.

Mother heard her sigh and motioned for the servants to pause. “You shouldn’t droop your shoulders so,” she mentioned, “It’s bad for your posture. And smile, honey. It’s not a death warrant you’re holding.”

“I know, Mother. But… It’s just that…” Mîm shrugged.

They’d been having the same conversation for three days now, ever since the letter had arrived. The messenger had received a royal welcome, as though he were Thorin himself, and a small feast had been thrown to celebrate the news.

Her mother rubbed her temples, her bejeweled fingers casting glimmers onto the walls. “Mîm, my sweet, I thought we were in agreement.”

“We were. I mean, we are. But you can’t begrudge me for grieving for the life I wanted.”

“Grieving. Such a strong word.” Her mother pursed her lips. “Do you realize how lucky you are? Do you?” As Mîm didn’t respond, she insisted. “The king of Erebor himself has picked you, of all people, for his nephew to marry. Not Eíli, not Nárvi, but you.”

Mîm bit her lip. “I wonder why that is, too. They’re both older and better born.”

Both her cousins belonged to families closer to the oldest branch of the line of Durin. Eíli was also known to be a beauty, with her curly hair and luscious beard, while Nárvi’s father could provide her with a dowry worthy of a princess; not that such a thing would matter to a king whose mountain was filled with gold, if the rumors were to be believed.

“Better born? Pfft.” Her mother shooed her concerns away with the flick of her hand. “Nobility doesn’t matter, dear, if you cannot perpetuate it. Our family is known for its fertility, it’s a fact. No doubt that Thorin wants to be sure that his nephew’s wife will produce offspring in sufficient number.”

A blush crept up Mîm’s neck at the mention of her supposed breeding abilities. She’d always known that she’d be expected to marry, and of course someday there’d be children. Yet she’d hoped that her womb wouldn’t be the sole thing her husband would treasure. Mîm believed that her gentleness, her amiable character or her curiosity about the world outside - no matter how small her experience of life was – were so many true qualities he could admire.

Still, she knew that her parents only had her best interests at heart, and when the letter had come, Mîm had agreed to the marriage without a fuss. Such was her duty as a daughter, not to mention her obligation towards the dwarven race. She would have to find contentment in the raising of children and caring for her husband.

Yet she was everything but satisfied, her heart heavy and her mind disquiet; there was only one dwarf in the world who knew she had more to offer than offspring, and she had yet to tell him of her betrothal.

As if she’d read her mind, her mother went to sit on the bed, facing her. “Did you write to Fráin yet?” she inquired in a quiet voice.

Mîm shook her head. “No. I…” She wrung her hands. “I don’t know how to voice it.”

She guessed his reaction already, both bewilderment and anger. Fráin would be hurt, she knew, and disappointed by her meek compliance with her parents’ wishes. Life was easier for him, though. There were few expectations for the son of a miner with not a drop of noble blood in his veins. Mîm herself had never minded – her blood was as red as his – but not everyone was of the same opinion.

Her mother lay a hand on hers and squeezed gently. “It’s hard for you, my sweet, I know. You are very brave.” She hesitated, glancing towards the servants who busied themselves with Mîm’s clothes. “Father and I are proud of you, it’s true, but if you believe you’ll be unhappy with Fíli…”

Mîm’s parents had always been quite clear on the expectations they had about her future: a comfortable marriage and a comfortable life, sliding seamlessly from one loving home into another. She’d been sheltered without being spoiled, free without being left to roam as she pleased, with the unfortunate consequence of nurturing dreams of adventure while she learned how to run a household.

Unlike Fráin, it was not in her nature to rebel or disobey. Mîm had never chafed against the rules that others saw as restrictions, and considered obedience and respect towards her parents to be one of her chiefest qualities, and an appropriate mark of gratitude for the cozy life she’d been given. When the time had come to repay her parents’ kindness, she’d done her part, but it didn’t mean that renouncing her impossible dreams didn’t cause her any pain.

“I heard he’s a good man and I trust your advice, Mother.” Mîm sighed again. “Only Fráin’ll be so sad…”

“He will understand.” Her mother caressed her cheek. “If he loves you and wants what’s best for you, he will accept your choice.”

Mîm doubted that, but kept her opinion to herself.

oOoOoOo

_“My dear Fráin.”_

Mîm contemplated the words before crumbling the parchment and tossing it into the fire. Such a beginning would only lead him to believe in her sense of ownership over him, a belonging that she had no right to encourage.

_“Dear Fráin.”_

That was better, except that now she was stuck two words into the letter, hesitant about how to break the news to her childhood friend about her impending marriage. Would an explanation about how she felt about the matter help him understand her decision? Or should she be brief and risk to hurt his own feelings in the process?

_“I hope all is well with you. I’ve received news recently that I wanted to share, since you won’t be back for another month.”_

Did that sound as an accusation? Would he believe she’d forgotten him in his absence? Mîm chewed on her lip before deciding to leave the sentence as it was.

_“I’ve been chosen as a wife for the eldest nephew of king Thorin, F_ _í_ _li.”_

She worried about his reaction when he’d read those words, and about not being there to console him. Mîm and Fráin had been friends since childhood, and she loved him dearly, while not being entirely sure it was the kind of love that people wrote songs about. Still, she cared about him very much, and there was no-one in her life she trusted more.

There was the matter of the promise, too, but they’d been so young…

_“My parents believe it is in my best interest to accept this offer, and I trust their love for me.”_

Fráin wouldn’t understand. His parents had no plans for his future, making him free in a way she couldn’t imagine. He earned his living through honest labor and relied on no-one for subsistence, travelling the world from one job to another, and while sometimes Mîm found such a boundless freedom awe-inspiring, most often it terrified her.

Her own dreams had been modest: to see the world that lay beyond the walls of her city, to walk the forests and the plains of Rhovanion, and marvel at what life had to offer before becoming a wife and a mother.

Mîm had thought she had some more years before her, and even dared imagine she may be free to choose her husband and her fate. Her suitors so far had been few, which only served to encourage such hope. Perhaps even Fráin… And then the letter had arrived, the heavy golden seal weighing her down and crushing those dreams.

_“This is why I’ve decided to agree to this proposal, and I hope you will be as happy for me as I am now.”_

A tear ran down her cheek. It made a splotch on the parchment, narrowly missing the last letters of her previous sentence. Mîm wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, as gracefully as Mother had taught her.

Erebor was only a name, a scribble on a map. Mîm had no friends there, no family, and somehow, she doubted that Fráin would be welcome, considering his status and their relationship. Propriety demanded that she leave him behind, along with those dresses Mother had discarded that same afternoon, deeming them too drab for the court.

_“Please write soon to tell me about your life in the Misty Mountains. Are there truly so many orcs around? Please be careful, and keep your bow by your side at all times.”_

She signed the parchment and sealed it, embedding the sigil of their house into the melted blob of wax. The messenger would leave in the morning, which meant that Fráin would still get her letter before she left for Erebor.

Maybe she would even get the chance to read his reply, though Mîm feared she would find it too scathing for her taste. Fráin was a dear, but he had a fierce temper which had often caused him trouble in the past. Ofttimes, he would act or speak before thinking, and then struggled to repair the hurt he’d caused. Yet Mîm knew his heart was gold, and she would break it with the news. She never should’ve made that promise, but her regrets came fifty years too late.

They had only been children playing together without anyone finding it odd or inappropriate. A boy and a girl, plucking out daisies in a garden on a summer day, counting the petals at the sound of an old rhyme. Loves me, loves me not…

He loved her, Fráin had declared solemnly, and he always would. Her almost ten year old self had found it romantic and oh-so-sweet, and professed her love in return to the friend she cared about most in the world.

“Promise me,” he’d told her, “That when we grow up, we’ll get married.”

Mîm had laughed. “I can’t promise, silly, you know that. Mother and Father will choose someone for me and I’ll have to marry him.”

Fráin had frowned. “But doesn’t it bother you, not to know who it’ll be? And what he’ll look like?”

The younger Mîm had thought it over, toying with the flower in her hand. When he put it like that, it did seem awful to marry someone she might not like. Only Mother and Father loved her. They’d never choose someone ugly for her husband, would they?

“Promise me that if someday you have to marry someone you don’t want, you’ll let me know. Then I’ll come and marry you instead.”

His hand was warm on hers. The sun glinted in his black hair, and he was everything a young girl could want in a future husband: he was kind, he made her laugh, and he knew where to find the sweetest wild berries, which he kept only for her.

“I promise,” she’d beamed.

They’d entwined their little fingers and sealed their vow with a shake.

With time, Mîm hadn’t given much more thought to that day, as the prospect of marriage was still so distant that it was purely theoretical. She’d grown, and suddenly found that she couldn’t enjoy Fráin’s company as easily as before. A governess had moved in to watch over her education, and sometimes Mother supervised her lessons herself, teaching her to manage servants and keep count of the money, while reminding her that a good marriage was the best thing she could hope to achieve in her life.

As for Fráin, he’d started to work alongside his father, mining for ore and gems from dawn till sunset, though the sunshine didn’t reach the depths where he earned his living. Mîm rarely saw him until her coming of age, but the few times they’d met their bond remained unchanged, or so it appeared at first.

As the years went by, he grew ever more reckless and protective, making his jealousy clear whenever she met other people or made new friends, no matter how scarce they were. Mîm had strived to reassure him, spending time alone with him as much as she could without starting any unseemly rumors, but none of her efforts could quell his need for her attention.

Fráin was in love with her, Mîm knew, but neither of them had yet voiced that certainty. She’d often wondered whether she felt the same, stealing glances at his familiar face and his strong hands, questioning her own emotions. All she found was confusion and guilt at not being as sure about him as he was about her.

When Fráin accepted a mining job in the Misty Mountains, at the end of the past winter, Mîm had been both sad and relieved to watch him go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Alfirineth for beta-reading this story!

Chapter 2

_\- Mîm -_

Mîm unfolded the parchment with trembling hands, afraid of its contents but unable to resist any longer.

_“My dear Mîm, I hope this letter finds you before your departure for Erebor. I wanted you to know that I’ve received your words, and that I understand.”_

Fráin’s letter had arrived yesterday morning, but Mîm had only learnt of its existence on the morrow. She suspected that Mother had delayed its transmission for fear of the effect the missive would have on her daughter’s decision. At least, the seal was unbroken, which meant that Mother hadn’t dared to read it beforehand.

She shouldn’t have worried. Mîm had given her word, after all, and the reply to Thorin’s letter had been penned and sent the very day she’d agreed to the marriage. There would be no turning back, lest she humiliated the king’s nephew and shamed her entire family.

_“I always knew this day would come.”_

The reply was remarkably placid for someone as fiery as Fráin, and had Mîm not been certain that he knew how to write, she could’ve thought that someone else had composed it.

His reaction filled her with relief and, surprisingly, disappointment. Mîm had been so sure he’d curse and beg her to reconsider, that she’d never considered the possibility that he would be mature about it and accept her decision. She checked the penmanship closely, trying to see whether the letter could’ve been counterfeit, but the tilt in the letters and the spelling mistakes were most definitely Fráin’s.

_“I always knew that someday you would remember the promise you’ve made so long ago. I knew you hadn’t forgotten.”_

Mîm blanched. The letter wasn’t going as she thought it would, but she hadn’t imagined this turn of events.

 _“I’ll come for you, as I’ve promised in return. We’ll be together again. Wait for me, if you can. Forever yours, Fráin_. _”_

Despite the impossible breach of propriety he was suggesting and the awful betrayal of parental trust it represented, Mîm found her heart soaring with hope. If she simply vanished before her marriage, there would be no shame for her family, and no retaliation from Erebor. People were bound to assume that something dreadful had happened to her; Fíli would find himself another bride amongst the dozens of nobly-bred ladies of marrying age, and his future wife would undoubtedly thank Mîm for her disappearance.

True, Mother would be devastated, but Mîm would let her know she was alive and hale once the royal marriage was over.

Her hands shook as she reached out towards the candle. The parchment caught fire as soon as the flame tasted its edge, and Mîm dropped it onto the marble floor before it burned her fingers. The letter curled up and blackened, Fráin’s words disappearing from sight.

No-one else would know of their plan.

oOoOoOo

From that day onward, Mîm started to organize her escape.

The clothes that hadn’t been packed away were the most worn-out pieces she owned, comfortable and familiar, and Mîm deemed them well-suited for living outdoors. Her old leather satchel - the one her mother almost threw away due to its disheveled state - would serve to carry her things, and she started stuffing it with everything she wanted to keep. Mîm tried to stay away from romantic keepsakes, but it broke her heart to leave behind her old drawings and books. She could already imagine Fráin’s shocked expression when she’d pull them out to decorate their new home, wherever that would be.

In the meantime, she kept the satchel under her bed, with a set of clothes and an old pair of boots she meant to wear when she ran away. She started counting the days until her departure for Erebor, certain that Fráin would show up before then and whisk her away on their adventure.

Of course, Mother mustn’t suspect a thing about her intentions, so Mîm remained as obedient and dutiful as ever, choosing the gown she’d wear for the wedding, and standing still for hours for the measurements until her legs went numb. From the color of the hem to the matching jewelry, Mother fretted about the smallest details, eager to demonstrate their family wealth and status.

“So much to do,” she muttered as she swept through their home, her servants on her tail, “and so little time.”

Fortunately, Mîm’s own growing restlessness could pass for excitement, and she often found her mother staring at her with tears in her eyes.

“You seem happy,” Mother told her one day as Mîm was perched upon a pedestal, swathed in waves of white velvet. “Oh, my sweet girl… I am so relieved.”

Mîm felt her stomach knot with guilt. It must’ve shown on her face, as her mother suddenly grabbed her hand. “You must be so nervous… Don’t be. He’ll love you as much as I do, you’ll see.”

Yes, Fráin loved her, Mîm mused as she squeezed her mother’s hand in return.

“He’s a kind man,” Mother continued fervently. “So considerate of him to come here for the marriage, so you’ll not feel alone for such an important day.”

Mîm flinched, and cried out in pain at once as one of the seamstresses prickled her with a needle, startled by her sudden movement. The woman mumbled an apology, but Mîm was no longer paying her any attention.

“What do you mean?” she inquired, trying to sound detached and only mildly curious.

Her mother smiled. “Haven’t I told you? Oh sweet, I am sorry, with all the preparations it must’ve slipped my mind.” She knelt, checking the length of the skirts. “Make it shorter,” she instructed, “I don’t want my daughter tripping on her wedding dress.”

Mîm fretted. “Mother, what were you saying? About the marriage?”

“The king has written a most gracious letter,” her mother remembered. “He’s informed us that his nephew is travelling towards the Iron Hills to meet his betrothed –” she shot Mîm a tender look “– and that the first rites of marriage will be accomplished here, amongst our family, as a mark of equality and respect.”

The ground swayed beneath her feet. Mîm pushed the seamstresses aside and plopped herself down onto the pedestal, uncaring for their protests and the sound of tearing fabric. Her mother rushed to her side, fanning her with one hand and calling for water.

“It’s the heat,” she asserted, “and the nervousness, of course. Don’t just stand around, give her some room!”

“When is he coming?” Mîm heard herself ask in a hollow voice. Her stomach churned with dread.

Her mother thought it over. “The letter came a week ago,” she mused aloud. “The prince of Erebor should be arriving anytime now.”

oOoOoOo

When the dress was ready, Mîm was bade try it on one last time. The shimmering fabric hugged her bosom and fell away from her waist, swirling around her feet whenever she moved. A creation worthy of a queen, as her mother had put it, gushing at her daughter’s beauty.

Mîm couldn’t help but admit that the garment was magnificent indeed. Heavy and flattering, sober yet festive, it enhanced her best assets while hiding whatever flaws she thought she possessed. Mîm had expected herself to hate it, but it was so well made and full of love that she couldn’t bring herself to despise it.

She watched her own reflection in the large, gold-rimmed mirror that stood before her, tugging at her skirts and watching them glimmer discreetly in the firelight. Her mother’s voice hummed in the background, prattling about earrings and hair styles.

Mîm wondered what Fráin would make of her, dressed in such a manner. Most likely he’d laugh, mocking her for her arrogance, or he’d stare at her figure with lust in his eyes, not-so-subtly hinting at the kind of thoughts a man could have when faced with a woman thus adorned.

Either made Mîm uneasy. Fráin was as dear to her as her own family, perhaps even more since she’d chosen him to be part of her life. Mîm was expected to come to love her husband, so why not Fráin?

Yet she suspected that her own feelings wouldn’t change, remaining sadly far from the romantic interest one was expected to develop towards a young man her age and already so attached. Mîm feared that her tenderness, no matter how sincere, would always fall short of Fráin’s expectations. She knew how well he handled such disappointments.

oOoOoOo

Three days passed, and still Mîm saw so sign of Fráin, nor heard from him. Her disappointment was counter-balanced by the fact that Fíli still hadn’t reached the city either, and she made herself hope that everything would go as planned.

Her bag was packed and ready, a letter to her parents already written and folded into one of the pockets. Mîm checked under her bed every night to make certain that her plan hadn’t been discovered.

Gurulazgoth thrummed with the news of Fíli’s arrival, and most of her acquaintances were dying from envy. Mîm suddenly found herself invited for tea into houses she’d never been to before, young women she’d never met yearning to become her friend.

“You are so incredibly lucky,” Torri screeched into her cup one afternoon, as they sat under the shade of an oak that grew by the terrace.

Torri’s sister Lóni nodded eagerly, and almost splashed her tea onto the tablecloth. She was the one holding the reception, and if Mother hadn’t insisted she came, Mîm would never have set foot into the house.

“Just imagine… Becoming the queen of Erebor!” Lóni’s eyes turned wistful. “Swimming in gold, doing whatever you like…”

Ever since their childhood, all of Lóni’s friends had been rich. She’d always been more interested in people’s treasury than their nature, Mîm remembered, and even now, she knew she would’ve never been invited, had her own social status not been on the rise.

Torri snorted. “Imagine this: bedding that oh-so-handsome prince…” She giggled as Mîm choked on her tea. “Oh come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that.”

“She most definitely hasn’t.” Eíli’s voice held venom when she spoke. “Our dearest Mîm is as pure as the snow that sits atop that mountain.” She paused. “And just as cold.”

Eíli was as alluring as ever in her dress of blue silk, her blond hair coiled into ringlets, her beautiful beard entwined with golden thread. Mîm’s own garb and updo seemed dull in comparison.

“I’d like to sit on Fíli’s Lonely Mountain, if you get my meaning…” Torri grinned and glanced over at Mîm. “Some of us don’t know their luck.”

Mîm felt offended. “I’ve never even met him,” she muttered, stirring her tea sullenly.

Torri seemed to take pity on her. “He’s blond, and broad-shouldered,” she began, counting out on her fingers. “He’s fought in the Battle of the Five Armies, so he must be both brave and skilled.” She folded another two fingers. “Oh, and he’s got a handsome younger brother.”

Lóni nodded and set her cup back onto the table, her rings jangling against the glass. “Since Fíli’s now betrothed to my dearest cousin, I’ll have to settle for Kíli.” She shot Mîm a nasty glance, as if offended by the thought of coming second after her.

“I’d settle for Thorin himself,” Torri chimed in.

“How desperate are you?” Eíli gave her a look of disgust. “He’s old!”

“And rich,” Torri shot back. “Besides, that means that he won’t rule for very long.”

“And our dearest Mîm will become the Queen under the Mountain.” Eíli grimaced. “What a waste.”

Lóni smirked. “Does this mean you’ve finally discarded that admirer of yours?” She made a show of trying to remember his name. “Fráin, was it? What does he do, again?”

“He’s a miner,” Mîm replied through clenched teeth. She was gripping the handle so tightly that her knuckles were white.

Lóni had just breached her favorite subject of all time: belittling others, and Fráin especially. She’d always been mean to him, as far as Mîm could remember, mocking everything about him, from his appearance to his occupation.

“Ah yes. A miner.” Lóni stroked her beard. “What a filthy trade, though. His hands are always black with dirt, how disgusting. A good thing you finally acquired some sense and distanced yourself from such… frequentations.”

“Wasn’t your grandfather a miner?” Mîm snapped. She would’ve strangled the woman with her own beard, if that hadn’t been so awfully impolite.

“Oh yes. But only until he found that vein of ore. After that, he’d never had to touch a pickaxe again.”

Torri gave Mîm a shove with her elbow. “I think Fráin’s very handsome. A little dirt’s never hurt anyone, I think it adds to his… ruggedness.”

“That’s because you’re a floozy, Torri.” Lóni sipped her tea. “I’m ashamed to call you my sister.”

But even Torri’s intervention didn’t lift Mîm’s mood. She knew that half the city was thinking what Lóni had just voiced. No matter how kind or funny or hard-working Fráin was, their difference of wealth would always drag him down. Unless she ran away, forfeiting her own status, she would lose him forever.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_\- E_ _í_ _li -_

Eíli crushed her handkerchief in her hand to relieve the tension from her face. Had she enough strength, she would’ve ground it into ash. Her appearance was as composed and pleasant as ever, but under her pretty skin she was seething.

Her skirts swirled as she walked, the soft blue silk sweeping the ground in her wake. The city was large, but not large enough to avoid meeting a couple acquaintances on her way. Even though she was in no mood for niceties, Eíli waved as she passed them by. She couldn’t afford offending anyone, lest her parents heard about it; and Eíli must avoid that at all costs.

The golden beads in her hair jingled softly with each step, the heavy torque around her neck pressed painfully against her collarbone, choking her. It was unbelievably expensive; a one-of-a-kind piece that very few could boast to possess. Her parents could afford it, and thus boast they did, displaying their daughter and their jewels like some kind of a one-for-the-price-of-two deal.

The necklace and the parading, Eíli despised it all; but there’d never been a time when she’d had a say in the matter. An only child, and a daughter at that, she was bound to leave the house instead of bringing back a wife and a dowry as a son could. A walking expense, as her father had once put it.

Armed with this knowledge, her parents had trained her, molded her into the embodiment of perfection and beauty. Not one man who’d crossed her path hadn’t wished she was his; not one woman hadn’t felt jealous of her youth and her figure. Eíli’s upbringing had come at a cost, but her marriage would pay her parents back a hundredfold.

The lower districts were bustling with people, and Eíli held her breath while she made her through the streets and the stairs that led to Mîm’s house. She grit her teeth, stretching her lips into an amiable smile, as she nodded at an elderly friend of her father. The man’s hungry eyes slid down from her face and into her cleavage, raking over her figure as she passed him by. Eíli’s smile froze on her face, but she kept it plastered on for appearances’ sake.

Had she been alone she would’ve screamed, but that would have to wait until she got home.

That prude Mîm had been chosen by king Thorin to marry his nephew. What a farce. Not that Eíli had particularly cared about Fíli or his brother, or even marriage in general; after all, it was only a matter of who would possess her next, bragging about his newest acquisition.

But Mîm, of all people…

Eíli crossed a small plaza, uncaring of the awed stares of the passer-bys. She was more beautiful than her demure cousin, and better educated by far. She knew her Westron and even some elvish, even if the softer syllables of the Sindarin tongue tended to make her lisp. She could sing and play the harp, all the while being perfectly versed in the art of running a household.

A perfect bride, and still she’d only come second in Thorin’s mind. All because the women of her cousin’s family couldn’t refrain from popping out child after child, flattering men’s egos and feeding their need for immortality.

Eíli’s jaw hurt from smiling by the time she arrived to Mîm’s house. The mother was at the market, she knew, gossiping with her friends and basking in their compliments and admiration. Mîm’s upcoming marriage was on everyone’s lips, including those of Eíli’s own family.

It had been years since her mother’s last inspection, and Eíli had grown to believe that she’d never have to go through it again. But only two days prior she’d been made strip down once more and stand naked in the middle of her room, while her mother had watched her squirm, unminding of her shame.

“Your cousin’s about to marry the future king of Erebor,” she’d drawled, walking a slow circle around her daughter. “The youngest one,” she’d added, as if to clarify which cousin she meant. “Tell me, why not you?”

“I don’t know, Mother.” Eíli had stood tall, refusing to meet her mother’s calculating eyes. The chill of the chamber had made her shiver.

Her mother had pinched her arm, feeling the flesh beneath her fingers. “You’ve not been eating again, have you?”

Eíli had started to tremble. “I’m eating enough, Mother, as you’ve advised.” Her stomach had churned in anticipation. “Please. I’ve done everything according to your instructions.”

“Apparently not. Tell me, daughter, is there any family in all the dwarven kingdoms who’s more deserving to rule? Anyone more suited than my daughter to become a Queen?”

“No, Mother.” It was a long-practiced reply that spilled from her lips without a thought.

“Is there anyone more determined than you to make it happen?”

“N-No, Mother.” Her teeth were starting to chatter.

“Hmm.” Her mother had raised a finger to her lips, pondering the situation. “Mîm is younger, that is true. Perhaps we’ve waited too long.” She’d taken a long, appraising look at her daughter’s body. “I’d told your father we should’ve accepted Frór’s offer. A miserly price in comparison to the quality of the goods, but still, your weight in gold…” She’d sighed. “If only you ate more.”

Eíli dove into an alcove hidden from the street and leaned her forehead against the cold stone wall, waiting for the spasms in her stomach to subside. She refused to remember what had followed; her mother could not be swayed by pleas or tears, she should’ve remembered that.

Once the queasiness had faded and the cold sweat that dampened her skin had dried, she searched her pocket for the key she’d stolen from Mîm. That little dork had been so engrossed in her dispute with Lóni that she’d never noticed Eíli slip her hand into her pocket and fish it out.

The door of the house was open, of course, as no self-respecting dwarf would ever bother to lock up his belongings. If one did, people could think he couldn’t afford to replace anything that could get stolen; only poor folk used their house keys. But the rooms, however, were another matter.

Eíli took a few minutes to regain her composure before strutting through the front door. The servants looked up from their chores but she pretended she didn’t notice them, unreachable in her beauty and certain of her superiority. As she swept past the entrance hall and towards the living quarters, one of the girls chased after her.

“M’lady, beg your pardons.” She quivered under Eíli’s icy gaze. “Their ladyships are not home.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Eíli snapped haughtily. “I’ve come to leave a present for my cousin’s wedding. Did you take me for a thief?” She raised her chin, her eyes flashing. “Do you even know who I am?”

The servant girl shook in fear. “My p-pardons, my lady, please,” she stuttered. “I… No, I…”

Eíli sighed exaggeratedly, feigning to forgive the girl’s ignorance. She’d seen her mother do it often enough to mimic her expressions. “I’ll leave it in her room. If you don’t mind, that is.”

She didn’t wait for a reply and walked off briskly towards Mîm’s old chambers, hoping that her cousin hadn’t changed her accommodation. She hadn’t been into the house for years, and her supposed courtesy visit would look much less convincing if she got lost. Luck was with her that day; when she inserted the key into the hole and turned, the door opened to reveal typical young lady’s chambers: small and cozy, with a lavish bed and a dressing table overcrowded with jewels and potions, the lush carpets strewn with clothes.

Eíli glanced around her, wondering where to start. The tea party at Lóni’s house had infuriated her so much that she’d pretended to feel unwell, excusing herself before the end. She’d blame it on the poor quality of the food later on, of course, but for now she had more pressing preoccupations.

There had to be something here Eíli could use to compromise her cousin, and perhaps even force her to reconsider her decision to marry Fíli, shaming her before the whole city and the kingdom of Erebor. After all, every woman had a secret.

She sifted through the few garments that hung in the wardrobe, checking the pockets just in case, and stuck her hands beneath the vanity in search for hidden panels. The drawers’ contents told her nothing, and neither did the pillowcases. Truth to be told, Eíli hadn’t really thought she’d find anything in such an obvious hiding place; Mîm was bland, but not stupid.

Outside, voices rang out as the servants busied themselves around the house. Footsteps thumped past the door, and her heartbeat quickened.

She cursed as the key clattered to the ground: somehow she’d let it slip from her hand. It bounced on the marble floor and skidded under the bed. Eíli stopped to listen, but no footsteps were heading her way. Still, she was running out of time.

She knelt and stretched out her hand to retrieve the key, grimacing when her wrist brushed against the dust that lay there. When her fingers touched the cold metal, her eyes were drawn to a dark form that stood out against the outline of the bedframe.

A small bag had carefully been stowed away under the bed, propped against the wall.

Eíli smirked and pulled it out. The leather satchel was old and worn, Mîm’s initials engraved on the front flap, and stuffed with nonsense. Her mouth curved in disgust at the sight of the old toys that all but burst from within when she opened it.

The bag made a rustling sound when she set it upon the bed, piquing her curiosity. The front pocket was empty, she found, but there was another compartment inside that held a folded piece of parchment. Eíli held it towards the light.

_“Dear Mother…”_

As she discovered the contents of the letter, she felt as if she’d been punched to the stomach, her breath hitching and her eyes watering. This wasn’t quite what she’d expected to find, but better… Much better. Eíli stuffed the letter back into the bag and restored everything to its place before dusting off her dress.

The time for vengeance had finally come. Mîm was in for a surprise.

oOoOoOo

“Eíli, dear.” Ummi smiled and motioned her to sit.

A fire roared in the hearth, and the room was unbearably hot. Eíli started to sweat under her dress, the tight corset digging into her swelling flesh like a cage. Her own mother would be most displeased, she knew, as sweat stains were most difficult to remove from satin. But this time she didn’t care.

She forced herself to smile in return and perched herself on the edge of a gold-painted chair, noting absent-mindedly the awful taste of the decorations. Flashy trinkets caught the incomer’s eye from every corner of the room, screaming about wealth and prosperity, while the lowly origins of the family peeked from beneath the peeling paint.

“It’s very kind of you to return my daughter’s key. Mîm is such a sweet girl, but still so young, yes?” Ummi watched for her reaction, and Eíli made herself nod in a complacent manner.

“I believe she lost it at Lóni’s house.”

She lay the key out on the table before them. A servant brought refreshments; Eíli smelled spices and boiled wine. Her stomach roiled. Holding her breath, she touched the cup to her lips and made a show of enjoying her drink.

“So young,” she muttered to herself, staring into the flames.

Not so long ago, Eíli had been as young as Mîm now was. When they were little, they’d even been friends for a time. She’d loved her cousin like a sister, protecting her from the older girls’ mockery and teaching her to braid her hair. Then everything had changed.

Ummi leaned forward. “What did you say, dear?”

“Your daughter is young,” Eíli repeated, her hands wrapped around her cup, gathering her courage. “And naïve. Forgive me for using the key as an excuse to see you today, but there is something I have to tell you.”

“What is it, dear?” Ummi frowned.

Eíli glanced towards the servant girls, who were eavesdropping on their mistress while pretending to dust the shelves. Much to their disappointment she motioned for them to leave, and turned back towards her guest as soon as the door clicked closed.

“Tell me,” she demanded, any trace of sugary sweetness gone from her voice.

Eíli hesitated for only a second. After all, she owed Mîm nothing. Her cousin had brought this upon herself by through her own choices.

“I fear for her reputation,” she confided. “Look beneath her bed.” Eíli rose, straightening her skirts. “There is a letter inside. If you truly want that marriage to happen, I suggest you read it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_\- Mîm -_

“Wait!”

Mîm watched her mother inspect her appearance one last time, searching for the slightest imperfections that could still be corrected before they left the room. Finding none, she brushed a non-existent speck of dust from her daughter’s dress and nodded in approval.

“You’re perfect, my sweet. Fíli will adore you.” Her eyes were brimming with tears of pride.

Mîm swallowed. She knew she was as pretty as she could hope to be, if still less beautiful than her cousin – but then again, Eíli’s beauty was so utterly unattainable that Mîm hardly felt jealous. Even though her duty was to look her best so as not to shame her parents, tonight her appearance was the least of her concerns.

Outside, Gurulazgoth buzzed mutedly like a giant hornets’ nest, woken by some stranger who’d intruded on their territory. Only here said stranger was most welcome, the thousands of inhabitants pressing into the streets to watch the King under the Mountain’s nephew’s arrival. Only one soul in the whole city was not in a rush to see him, and it was precisely the one he was coming to meet.

Her father was already waiting in the hall. From the sweat that beaded on his forehead Mîm guessed that he’d been pacing the room, impatient to see his wife and daughter appear, and yet afraid of Mother’s wrath should be beseech them to hurry up. He squinted at Mîm’s attire and exchanged a poignant glance with his wife.

“My beautiful daughter, soon to become a Queen.”

He was dressed in his richest clothes as well, visibly miserable and yet bearing it without a word of complaint. The upcoming hours would seal the fate of their family and tie it to the royal line of Erebor forever. Such an achievement was apparently well worth suffering a dose of discomfort.

Mîm took the proffered hand, his palm clammy on hers, and allowed herself to be led outside. At the very last moment she turned around to cast one last, longing look towards her room, and the bed where her bag still lay hidden, full of things she’d never see or touch again. It didn’t matter anymore if her parents found it, or if her mother read the letter it contained.

Fráin hadn’t come.

The terrace of their house and the adjoining plaza had been decorated with garlands and flowers for the occasion, and lit with dozens of torches that sputtered and smoked in the evening air, reflecting on the grey-blue stone. The heavy, cloying smell made her head turn, or perhaps was it the nerves? Mîm couldn’t tell, and didn’t care.

She stood in front of her house, flanked by her parents, while in the distance, somewhere, trumpets and cries announced her betrothed’s progression through the city. The interest the crowd had shown her upon their appearance had died down, and now that the onlookers had satisfied their curiosity, there was little to do but wait.

Mîm scanned the faces before her, searching out of habit for the familiar, reassuring face of her childhood friend, but she knew that if Fráin was here, he’d not loiter around while she was waiting to be given away. There was bound to be cussing and brawling; Fráin tended to act rather than think, especially if his feelings were involved. Only this time his plans, if there were any, had failed.

“Why is it taking so long?” Mother complained to her father in a low voice.

“The lords of Gurulazgoth are bound to welcome him personally,” Father muttered, leaning towards her. Mîm could see the sweat stains forming under his arms. “The lord of every district will want to speak with him,” he mused. “You’ll have to be patient, dear.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mother seethed under her breath, and Mîm had to agree.

In the insetting gloom of the evening, tiny, flickering lights sparked in the darkness, shining like stars in the vastness of the mountain. Mîm was standing, all dolled up and idle, with naught better to do but to listen to the distant hum of the crowd and the cheers that crept through the city, closer with each minute and yet still so far away. Some of the dawdlers were getting bored and dwindled away, while an ambulant food merchant installed his cart at the entrance of the plaza, as if they were all some kind of spectacle.

“What does he think he’s doing,” Father growled and motioned to his men to remove the offender, who erupted in protests. Had this all not concerned her, Mîm would’ve laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

All of a sudden, cries arose beyond the plaza, and her heart skipped a beat.

The greying head of lord Huldin, the richest and most prominent man in their district, appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the terrace, his personal guard walking at each side of his vast figure. He was addressing someone Mîm was yet to get a glimpse of, and whom she pitied already due to Huldin’s notoriously awful breath.

The dwarf who strode beside him was young and dressed in simple travelling garb covered in dust. His blond hair was braided in symmetrical tresses on each side of his face, his mustache similarly woven with small silver beads. With every step, he trod mud onto the pristine stones of the terrace, and Mîm felt her mother tense beside her in disapproval. Had Huldin not made such a show of bowing and gesturing towards their house, Mîm never would’ve guessed that this tired-looking dwarf was her soon-to-be husband.

“Your Highness,” Huldin bent, his stomach brushing against his knees, “May I have the immense honor of introducing you to your future wife, Mîm, and her illustrious family.”

“Lady Mîm.” Fíli bowed, a hand on his heart. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” He had a kind face, she noted, but his voice was hoarse from answering a thousand greetings since his arrival into the city.

“Your beauty surpasses everything that I’ve been told,” he recited wearily.

If she’d ever imagined herself marrying a prince, Mîm mused, he wouldn’t have looked like this. First of all, he’d be less travel-worn and much more charming, unlike the dwarf who now stood before her, citing a well-learned compliment for memory.

Everything that her parents had held against Fráin, Fíli embodied: save for the blond hair and the blue eyes, he was just as dirty, rugged and disreputable-looking. But his name and lineage were noble, and that apparently made all the difference in the world. Had Fráin walked in looking like that, Mother would’ve emptied a bucket of water over his head.

Mîm curtsied, her legs protesting after such a long immobility. “I am honored to meet you, your Highness,” she replied, struggling to remember the words. “Tales of your bravery have made me long for this day ever since the news of our betrothal.”

Their eyes met, and Mîm forced herself to turn away. The injustice that he’d been born a prince and Fráin a miner’s son stung too deep for her to ignore.

Fíli could have her body and her life, and she would show him the respect due to a husband and a prince; but he’d never get her heart, and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

He wasn’t Fráin. He didn’t love her.

oOoOoOo

Mîm’s hands shook when she placed them into Fíli’s outstretched palm. He covered them with his second hand, enclosing her much smaller ones into his grasp. Such a gesture was meant to symbolize protection, but to Mîm it was an expression of the dominance a husband exerted over his wife. It was an unspoken truth, hidden behind pretenses of frailty and care, but known to all, especially the women.

Fíli’s hands were warm and callused, and he held her gently, barely brushing her skin. Mîm shivered despite the warmth of the room. She could feel his eyes upon her, searching her face for a connection, a complicity that she wasn’t ready to offer.

The handfasting ceremony was being held inside their home, despite the city lords’ recriminations about the modesty of its size, and about how unfitting it’d be for a prince of Erebor to descend towards his betrothed of a lower rank instead of her rising to meet him. Mîm didn’t know what her future husband thought of her or their house, but the fact was that Fíli was here today, weary but determined. Only part of his retinue had been invited to enter, the two dwarves lingering like shadows at the back of the room.

Mîm’s father bound the strip of fabric around their hands and wrists, the shimmering white silk like a bandage for a hidden wound. “You must both repeat the words,” he instructed, “First the husband, then the wife.”

He motioned for them to begin. Fíli drew a deep breath.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself, but while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.” His voice rang out, strong and clear, despite his exhaustion. There was no hesitation in his tone, only the sense of duty they both shared.

Mîm repeated the sentence before starting a new one: “You cannot command me for I am free, but while we both wish it, I promise you my respect and my support.” Her own voice was flat and dull.

The pledge was traditional in its contents, and she’d learned it all during the days that preceded the handfasting. There’d been little else to do, and it’d given her a good excuse to escape her mother’s ceaseless fretting and her own thoughts. As the wedding day drew near, her despair to see Fráin appear on her doorstep had peaked before vanishing. She’d finally understood that he would not – or could not – come.

It was her future husband’s turn to mimic her promise. “I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back, and you for mine,” Fíli added, and Mîm felt him softly squeeze her hands as he spoke the last part.

Whether it was intentional or not, she gave no hint of acknowledgement. Maybe it was merely the jitters of being bound to a stranger for the rest of his life, or maybe he was intent on eliciting some kind of response out of her before the ceremony was through. Mîm fought the urge to look into his eyes as he peered into hers.

Though it seemed needlessly cruel to deny his need to forge a more intimate bond than the fasting of their hands, her loyalty to Fráin held her back. Why had he broken his promise? Why had he abandoned her?

“I shall not slander or shame you, nor you me. I shall keep no secrets from you and tell you no lies, and expect from you the same trust and honesty,” she whispered.

It was a wonder she didn’t stutter. Their marriage wasn’t even done yet, and already she was betraying her vows, Mîm realized, thinking of another man while Fíli held her hands in his and stood before her in her own home. How unwelcome he must feel, then, how foreign and unwanted.

Just like Fráin had always felt, ever since their childhood.

Mîm raised her eyes at last. Fíli faltered in his breath, the words he’d been about to say stumbling on his lips. As brown eyes met blue ones, she saw her betrothed stand taller; as she held his gaze, part of the weariness he’d been bearing lifted from his shoulders.

His voice was stronger and more confident as he spoke next: “I shall honor you above all others, and stand by your side through whatever life brings us: riches or poverty, health or illness, though good times and bad, until the end of my days.”

His grasp on her hands tightened, but there was no threat in his embrace. And when he spoke his final pledge, Mîm believed him.

“This is my vow to you,” she echoed his final words, the silken ribbon around their hands shining in the light of the torches.

Distantly she heard her father speak, pronouncing them husband and wife, until the final ceremony that would be held in Erebor, and her mother sniff into her handkerchief while berating the servants, who were preparing a small feast in the adjacent room. Fíli was still cupping her hands, their eyes locked above the binding.

Mîm noticed the different shades of gold in his hair, some strands richer than honey and some pale and silvery. Darker flecks rimmed the irises of his blue eyes, his long golden lashes casting shadows upon his cheeks. Torri had been right: he was handsome. She wondered what he made of her, with her mousy locks and her almost inexistent beard.

Eíli would’ve made a much more fitting bride for a prince, her beauty in itself a sufficient dowry for any man. She would’ve known what to say, and how to behave with a man she’d only met an hour before, and still wasn’t sure she didn’t hate.

Mîm almost regretted the kindness she’d shown to Fíli, but unlike her cousin, cruelty wasn’t in her nature. She’d vowed to respect Fíli and support him throughout their life together, in all things good and bad; but no-one had the right to ask for more than that.

It dawned on her, then: the marriage was done, and her vows final. She’d bound herself to him, willingly and forever. There would be no running away now, no matter how she still longed for adventure, refusing to relinquish her childhood dreams.

She was a woman wed, and her life was no more her own.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_\- Mîm -_

The carriage chugged along the narrow, uneven road, its wheels biting the grass and slipping dangerously with every turn. Inside, Mîm was grateful that she wasn’t prone to travel sickness, as the vehicle swayed and groaned like some large, indisposed beast.

She had little choice but to occupy her thoughts in the best way she could; the journey had only begun, and already she was chafing at being confined in such a manner. Mîm imagined she’d been swallowed whole by some dragon, who was now soaring high above the earth, the Iron Hills shrunk to a scar on the face of the world.

When the time had come to depart, Mîm’s sadness at leaving both home and family had been somewhat alleviated by the prospect of adventurous travels, open skies and wondrous landscapes. Even though her face had fallen at the sight of the carriage, she’d forced herself to behave graciously, aware that Fíli had had her comfort in mind when he’d dragged the bulky thing all the way from Erebor.

Judging by his companions’ faces, Mîm guessed that they resented the slowness of the upcoming journey. With half a mind to inform them she’d not asked to be here or to be transported in such a way, Mîm had bitten her tongue and thanked them all for their consideration. Now, in the solitude of her rocky confinement, she rued their decision and her own politeness.

The tears of melancholy had long since dried on her cheeks and her handkerchief, and her embroidery had been set aside due to the scarce light of the interior. Reading was bound to make her sick, so Mîm resorted to pushing the heavy, velvet curtains open with both hands to glance one last time upon the only home she’d ever known.

The cold air seeped inside as she peered out of the window, sending shivers up her arms. The Redwater gurgled happily before her, flowing fast towards the south, across the wilderness until it joined its sister Running in lands unfathomably far away. The willows that grew on its banks whispered in the wind and waved Mîm goodbye with their long, green fingers. As she craned her neck to glimpse the gates of the city behind them, Fíli rode into view on a grey, shaggy pony, with fur so long and soft-looking that Mîm felt the urge to touch it at once.

He was still sporting his travel-worn garb, and bristling with weapons Mîm hadn’t noticed the night before. There were knives embedded into his boots and vambraces, and the hilt of a sword protruded from a scabbard he wore on his back. Since Fíli had assured her parents that the journey to Erebor was safe, Mîm wondered how much of the weaponry was mere precaution, or even habit, and how much of a white lie he’d actually told them.

If the road ahead of them was dangerous, however, he seemed blissfully uncaring about it, joking with his five companions, who were also armed to the teeth. Joyful banter shot back and forth between the head of the procession and its tail, and Mîm couldn’t help but feel envious of the easy camaraderie that bound them. Her own friends were few, and further away with every turn of the wheels.

Fráin himself was Mahal-knew-where, if he’d even left the Misty Mountains like he’d promised. For all she knew he could be dead somewhere, lying alone, his dark eyes fixed upon the same sky she was watching now. No stone would mark his grave, and no tears would fall upon his brow to grieve his passing.

“Are you comfortable, my lady?”

Fíli’s voice jerked her out of her gloomy thoughts. Mîm raised her gaze to notice him spurring his pony forward to catch up with the carriage. He must’ve noticed her leaning out of the window, and perhaps had wondered whether she wished him to attend to some need of hers, as a husband was supposed to do. He was dutiful, Mîm had to grant him that, a trait they had in common; but he needn’t have bothered. Solitude and silence suited her just fine.

“I am, my lord.” She bowed her head in gratitude. “This carriage is very… cozy.”

The title tasted so awfully pompous in her mouth, especially addressed at someone who’d share the rest of her life, but etiquette demanded she treat her husband with the same respect he’d shown her. Since he’d chosen to “my lady” her, Mîm would “my lord” him in return.

Fíli frowned at her confusion. “If you lack for anything, you only need to ask. If it’s in my power…”

“No, no!” Mîm sputtered, from fear that he’d confine her to the carriage for the rest of the journey, out of concern for her comfort. “I am very well, warm and out of the wind.” She hesitated, hoping she wouldn’t come across as overly sentimental. “I merely wanted to glance upon my city one last time.”

Fíli smiled in sympathy. “Have you ever been outside of Gurulazgoth?”

“Never.” Her voice was a mix of regret and awe. “In fact, this here is the farthest I’ve ever been from home.”

“How does it feel?” he wondered, this time in earnest worry. “Are you sad, or excited?”

Mîm propped her elbows on the window casing and rested her chin onto her hands, pondering his question. “Both, I think. Part of me wants nothing more but to run back towards the gates, and part is yearning to see more of the world that lays beyond.”

She didn’t add that she would’ve preferred to don trousers for the first time in her life and mount a pony as well. Mother said that only women of small virtue, or fortune, wore men’s garb and travelled in such a manner.

“And yet you’re still here.” For a moment, Mîm feared that Fíli had taken her reply for a confession of regret, but then his eyes crinkled in mirth. “I’ll take it as a sign that you’re willing to see the world with me.”

His smile was contagious, and Mîm found herself grinning in return. “Oh, that is all I desire.”

He wasn’t as severe as she’d imagined a prince of Erebor to be, nor nowhere as solemn as the old, stuffy lords of Gurulazgoth that her parents held in such high esteem. Here, in the middle of the dusty road, perched atop his shaggy pony, Fíli reminded her of Fráin; but while her friend’s dry humor was an acquired taste, Fíli possessed a good-natured spirit that made her feel appreciated.

Mîm bit her lip, wondering whether she could make use of his cheerful mood to improve her current situation.

“I was thinking,” she began coyly, twisting a strand of her hair around a finger, the way she’d seen Eíli do whenever she wanted something from a man, “Isn’t this carriage too slow for the journey?” Fíli cocked an eyebrow, and she hastened to clarify: “I mean, you must be eager to join your family as soon as possible. My lord.” Her finger caught in her wind-tangled hair and Mîm winced as she pulled it out. “Perhaps if I was to travel by pony…”

Fíli squinted at her before shaking his golden hair. “You are my family now, my lady. Your safety and comfort are my sole preoccupation, and it wouldn’t do if you had to ride all the way to Erebor on horseback, now would it?”

Mîm got the distinct feeling that he was teasing her as he smirked, sketching a bow and trotting off towards the head of the procession. Sighing, she sunk back into the velvety depths of the carriage and grabbed her embroidery.

It had been worth a try.

oOoOoOo

Mîm was jolted from her slumber when the carriage lurched to a halt. Still half-asleep, she stirred on her seat, grimacing as various aches made her aware of the uncomfortable position she’d been in. Her backside hurt and her right leg had fallen asleep, tingling as the blood returned to the muscles. Mîm grit her teeth at the detestable sensation, stilling until the discomfort passed.

What was worse, her needle had slipped from her fingers during her slumber, and now was nowhere to be found. As soon as she could use her legs again Mîm dropped to the floor, squinting in the dim light and searching the carpet for the tiny steel shard. It was thus that Fíli found her when he wrenched the carriage door open.

Mîm startled, glancing up from her search, on all fours between the benches. She was acutely aware of how messy she must look, sleepy-eyed and tousled, one of her cheeks still bearing the mark of the wooden wall of the carriage.

Fíli smirked. “Did you fall down, my lady? Do you need assistance in getting up?” Mîm watched his eyes slide down her neckline, which offered him a prime view of what was inside.

“No thank you, my lord,” she stressed, blushing, as she pressed her dress closer to her chest with one hand. “I am merely looking for something I lost.”

Her husband’s lips twitched as he fought to repress a smile. “Perhaps I can help with that.” He bent and picked up something on the floor, right beside the door casing. Mîm saw the needle glimmer between his fingers.

“Thank you.” She pushed herself up, still holding her dress closed at the chest, and plucked the needle from his grasp, refusing to meet his eyes.

“There will be food soon, if you’re hungry.” Mîm heard Fíli chuckle as he walked away towards his companions, whistling a tune under his breath.

It took her a moment to regain her dignity and appearance, combing her fingers through her rebellious hair and smoothing her cheeks. To her horror, her hand came off wet, which meant she’d been drooling in her sleep, and she was certain Fíli must’ve noticed. It was a good thing they were already married, for had he seen her in such a state as a first impression, he would’ve called off the wedding at once.

When she deemed herself presentable again, Mîm climbed down the few stairs that separated her from the ground. Once her feet were firmly planted on the earth again, she took a deep breath. The spring air was cold in her throat, cleansing and full of scents she didn’t know. The grass was lush and squishy, glistening with dew or rain.

They’d stopped a few yards away from the road, in a small clearing that bordered a forest. It was circled with birch trees that swayed in the wind, their foliage still scarce after the winter, but green and shining with life. Some of the dwarves had started a small fire, and one of them emerged from the woods carrying a collection of furry, bloodied corpses stringed to his belt.

Mîm approached the group gingerly, feeling like an intruder in the close-knit company. Some of the dwarves intimidated her, with their grim faces and their battle-worn armor, and some outright scared her, like the bald, tattooed fellow whose booming voice carried well beyond the clearing as he called out for more firewood.

She chose to perch herself atop a small boulder, in the shade of a birch tree that leaned towards the fire, her hands folded in her lap. Mîm felt quite idle and useless, but she had no talents the group required, so she tried at least not to get in their way.

So this is what real adventurers look like, she mused, as she observed them from her spot. Their hardened faces and tired eyes made Fráin look like a young boy who played with his father’s sword, pretending to be grown up. Even Fíli, the youngest of the group, was brisk and tough, his posture taut in anticipation of a threat even in such a friendly environment. Mîm had heard people say that someone moved like water, but Fíli was more like ice to her: smooth on the outside, but sharp and dangerous when provoked.

“Would you like some rabbit?”

A dwarf stood nearby, proffering a skewer of charred meat.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, accepting the portion. The rabbit was still hot from the fire and scalded her fingers when she prodded it. Mîm was relieved when it didn’t ooze any blood and licked her fingers, waiting for her meal to cool down.

“At your service,” the dwarf bowed, his star-shaped hair bobbing when he moved. As he started to leave, Mîm realized that she didn’t even know his name. If she was to someday be the Queen of Erebor, shouldn’t she get to know her future subjects?

“Wait!” she called out, startling him. He glanced back, wide eyed, and she rose from her boulder to perform a small curtsy, the skewer dripping onto her dress as she did so. “My name is Mîm,” she said, “What is yours, if I may ask?”

He grinned. “My name is Nori, my lady. I know who you are, I was present at your handfasting.”

Of course, he was, Mîm remembered it now. He and the bald dwarf had been invited into her parents’ home, but neither had stayed beyond the ceremony. She felt ashamed that she’d forgotten him, failing both her duty as a queen and a hostess. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she watched his retreating back.

“The bald one’s Dwalin,” said a voice beside her.

Fíli plopped himself down next to her boulder, his own meal in his hands. He waited until she was seated again before biting into his skewer, grease running down his beard. “He doesn’t like strangers, but he’ll warm up to you. Eventually.”

“It’s… good to know,” she replied, nibbling on her food. The meat was unsalted and dry, and remained stuck in her throat as she struggled to swallow it down.

“Nori’s our scout and hunter,” Fíli continued. “He caught today’s meal, while Prîm cooked it.” He nodded towards the third dwarf, a short, stout fellow with freckled skin and reddish hair and beard.

“And who’s your fourth companion?” Mîm asked. The last dwarf was tall and dark-haired, his two symmetrical braids mostly hidden under a big, floppy-eared hat.

“That’s Bofur.”

Fíli tossed the greasy wooden stick into the grass and wiped his hands on his trousers where they left dark stains, adding to the faint traces of blood and Mahal-knew-what else. Mîm repressed the urge to wrinkle her nose at the state of his clothing. Adventuring was one thing, but once they were back to Erebor, she was intent on having his garb thoroughly scrubbed and washed. It wouldn’t do to have the future King under the Mountain strutting around covered in grease and gore.

“And what does he do?”

Fíli laughed. “Anything. He’s a cheerful one, and kind-hearted. Anything you need you can ask, and he’ll help you out. If I’m not around, that is.” He winked at her. “I do intend to take good care of you, as I’ve pledged, or my mother will have my hide.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Mîm’s cheeks grew hot as a blush crept up her neck.

“Fíli. My name is Fíli.” He glanced towards the neckline of her dress again and smiled brightly. “We’re married now, or as good as. I can call you my lady if you like, but I’d rather use your name as well.”

Mîm wondered what Mother would think of such a breach of propriety. But Mother wasn’t here, was she?

“I’d rather you did, too.” They shared a look of agreement. “You can call me Mîm.”


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_-_ _E_ _í_ _li_ _-_

“Eat your venison, dear.”

Her mother’s cold voice echoed through the hall, adding to the chill that hung in the air. Eíli fought the tide of disgust that threatened to engulf her and speared the bloody morsel onto her fork. She could smell it, metallic and tangy, before it reached her lips. Under her mother’s unwavering gaze, she swallowed the chunk whole, loath to let it linger in her mouth.

Next to her, her father was stuffing his face with food, grease and blood dripping down his chin and onto his tunic. It was an old thing, ragged and dirty, bearing witness to a thousand messy meals. Eíli’s mother said it was a waste to let her husband eat in his nice clothes; he was to change before he sat himself at the table and once again after he rose, in case someone paid them a visit after supper.

Eíli reached to her cup to wash down the taste of the meat.

“Lord Huldin stopped by, today.”

Her mother’s eyes were on her food as she cut the venison into tiny bits, her knife barely brushing the plate. There was little sound in the dining room safe for the display of gluttony at the head of the table. Even the servants knew better than to gossip in low voices behind their backs.

“Oh. Did he, now.” Eíli played her part in the conversation, knowing better than to ask the reason of the visit. Her mother had her reasons for mentioning Huldin, she knew, and would tell her daughter if she felt so inclined.

“Don’t act the fool, my dear. You’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Eíli’s cup trembled in her hand. “Yes, Mother.”

Huldin was a pig and a sleaze, and an abusive one at that. It was common knowledge throughout the city that young servant girls were often recruited into his home, but none stayed for longer than a month, and some had been known to disappear. Those who’d remained in Gurulazgoth were terrified, and more than one had given birth in secret and shame to his bastard daughters and sons.

“It’s a shame he’s too old to be elected High Lord,” her mother continued, “But he’s offered a pretty price for your maidenhood.”

“For my hand, you mean?” Eíli quipped acidly. “I’ve been told than men usually ask for the former before getting the latter.”

Her mother lay down her knife, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be insolent, dear. You know it’s not your hand he’s lusting for.” Her tone was quiet and laced with unspoken threat.

Eíli set down her own utensils and folded her napkin onto the table. “Forgive me, Mother. I am not feeling well.” She rose, but her mother’s voice halted her.

“Sit down, and finish your meal. Venison is costly, surely you know that.” She raised a small chunk of meat towards her lips. “And fresh blood is good for your health.”

The remains of her meal taunted her, swimming in a pool of pink grease. Eíli pushed them around the plate, trying to buy herself some time. Her mother never stayed long after she was done eating, retreating to her chambers to do the counting for the household, adding up expenses and sighing at the sight of their meager income. She stabbed a cube of beet and munched on it, the earthy taste a relief for her senses.

“Huldin’s an important man,” her mother continued, determined to sing his praises even though they both knew who he really was. “He is in charge of the city justice, do I need to remind you about it? He’d make a good connection for our family, and a useful partner for your father’s business.”

Eíli’s father could only nod with enthusiasm, his mouth full of venison and pudding. His tunic stuck to his massive chest, drenched in juices and sweat.

“By the way,” a note of jubilation crept into her mother’s voice, “Do you know who’s rotting down in the cells as we speak?” She didn’t wait for Eíli to ask. “Your old friend Fráin, here’s who. He’s crept back into the city, from what I’ve heard, only to be promptly and quietly arrested. Now, dear, what’s wrong with you?” she exclaimed as Eíli choked on her wine. “Don’t tell me you’re still pining for that stinking little wretch.”

Eíli struggled to catch her breath and wiped her face with her napkin. Red blotches covered the white cloth, as if her mother’s words had made her bleed.

“Of course not, Mother. I’ve understood long ago how unworthy of me he is, and I am grateful you helped me see it.”

Her mother eyed her in distrust, but Eíli’s façade was well practiced. There were days she even fooled herself.

“No doubt he’d come to sneak your cousin away, that little ninny.” Mother raised her glass in a mocking toast. “A pity he didn’t succeed, though. If he had, you would’ve married the future King under the Mountain.”

oOoOoOo

For the very first time in her life, Eíli felt nervous.

A sentiment most rare for her, especially when it came to meeting men. Usually, they flocked towards her like moths to a flame, just as bleak and insignificant and annoying. They basked in her beauty and ogled her figure, imagining all the things they’d do to her if they could have their way, while she smiled and thought of anything but that.

Yet here she was, palms sweaty and heart racing in her chest at the idea of meeting one of them, even if her mother would’ve reminded her that Lord Huldin wasn’t just any man. He was the highest lord of their district, and the richest by far. In social circles, women would coo about the reasons why such a remarkable man was still unmarried, but behind closed doors each and every one of them was grateful she wasn’t his wife.

Eíli ran her hands through her locks, shaking them to bring more volume to her already perfect hair. Her beard was heavy with beads and golden thread, her skin was soft and unblemished. There was no way he could resist her, not when she knew he’d been talking of marriage with her parents. And she was determined to use that knowledge the best she could.

She came into view of the luxurious mansion Huldin inhabited, carved into the same stone the mountain was made of, veined in blue and glittering with specks of ore. A magnificent home, if truth was to be told, its value diminished in her eyes by the prospect of having to share it with such a slob. At the sight of the guards that stood beside the gold-rimmed doors, she raised her chin and stepped boldly forward.

“I have come to pay my respects to Lord Huldin,” she proclaimed. “Do announce my presence to his lordship.”

The two sentries exchanged a worried glance. “Is he expecting your visit?” one of them dared ask, and Eíli stared him down until he cowered.

“He will receive me,” she sneered, “Me, his betrothed. And if you don’t run this very instant and tell him I am waiting, I swear you will regret it.”

The guard gulped and trotted off, his armor rattling as he went. Eíli glowered at the remaining sentry until he looked away in unease. Minutes ticked by and she was starting to grow nervous again, afraid that he’d died in his sleep at such an inconvenient time. Just as she was about to take out her annoyance on the man before her, the doors swung open and Huldin appeared.

“Eíli, my dear.” He opened his arms, the robe he wore stretching precariously across his belly.

Eíli grit her teeth at being addressed as if she were a child, but quelled that feeling in favor of determination. She smiled in her most charming manner, both shy and seductive, as if he drove her mad with desire while she dared not admit it.

“Lord Huldin,” she curtsied, offering him a view of her breasts. She’d chosen the gown for that special purpose, the lowest-cut garment she owned. Any lower, and she couldn’t even call it a dress anymore.

Faced with such a promise, Huldin couldn’t deny her an invitation into his house. Eíli felt his eyes on her back as she strutted in, swaying a little more than necessary.

“What do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Eíli noticed that he was sweating.

She glanced around, worried that her mission may prove more difficult than anticipated, but her eyes fell upon her target almost at once. Eíli took a step towards the hearth. The fire was almost out, the dimness of the room all the more cozy and intimate. The shadows would be her ally, tonight, but the most unpleasant part was still to come.

“Why, my mother has told me that you’ve done us the honor to ask for my hand,” she purred.

He followed her, entranced by the movement of her hips. Eíli cast a coy glance over her shoulder, tossing her curls to reveal her neck. Huldin’s eyes were glazed over as he matched every one of her steps with his.

“Of course, when I learned that I wanted nothing more than to come here -” she moved, undulating, to the sound of his heavy breathing, “- and thank you for such a distinction.” The mantlepiece stood before her, no further than an arm’s reach. “I must confess, I was delighted by the news.”

Huldin’s breath ghosted against her shoulder, warm and fetid. Eíli swirled around and, hiding her grimace of disgust under a strained smile, pushed him gently towards the hearth until his shoulder blades touched the marble. Huldin’s pudgy flesh was clammy with sweat, and Eíli wanted nothing more than to wipe her hand on her dress and flee.

He panted, staring openly into her cleavage. “My lady,” he rasped, swallowing, “Your delight is my pleasure.”

His breath reeked of rotten teeth and undigested meals. Eíli she threw her head back and forced herself to breathe through the mouth, allowing him access to her throat. Huldin’s clumsy kisses imbued her skin; his hands fondled her waist, advancing slowly but surely towards her breasts, only pausing now and then to see whether she’d protest.

But she didn’t. Eíli’s fingers were busy with the iron hoop of the keys that lay on the mantlepiece, pulling them towards her inch by inch. Huldin’s thumb grazed a breast just as the set of keys disappeared entirely under her sleeve.

“Why, my lord, that’s quite enough,” she objected at last, wriggling out of his embrace. “What would my parents say of your behavior, I wonder!” Her throat was cold where his saliva was drying, and Eíli vowed to scrub herself clean as soon as she got out of there.

Huldin stood, bewildered by her change of heart. “I thought that…” he growled, his trousers straining over his arousal, his hairy gut hanging out of his robe. “You…”

Eíli saw the hunger in his eyes, and feared that she’d pushed him too far already. Stories of women who never got to leave the place came back to her mind, and her pulse quickened. He was advancing upon her once again, only this time his desire was tainted with something much darker.

“My lord, are you accusing me of lewd behavior?” Eíli crossed her arms, the keys heavy in her sleeve. “Me, a lady from a noble family?” Her feigned outrage seemed to abash him, and he ran a trembling hand through his beard before pulling his robe closed.

“No, of course. Forgive me. I… I got carried away by your beauty.”

Eíli smiled, her heart hammering under her ribs. “I understand,” she purred, “I will take it as the proof of your love for me. Oh my, is that the time?” she exclaimed, making a show of glancing at the intricate golden clock that ticked away on the wall. “I must be going, my parents will worry terribly if I’m not back home soon.”

Before he could utter another word she flounced out of the room and of the house, leaving in her wake a very confused Lord Huldin and two jeering guards.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_-_ _E_ _í_ _li_ _-_

Eíli cackled hysterically as she half-walked, half-ran through the city, scratching at her neck and shoulders in an attempt to remove any trace of Huldin’s touch. The passers-by stared and whispered, but she didn’t care. Never again would she have to worry about what people thought of her, and whether her parents would know what she’d done.

She wouldn’t marry Huldin, she would not.

Her hilarity was sparked by the realization that for the second time on days she’d resorted to stealing a key in order to reach her goals, but this time she’d be undoing what she’d caused in the first place. Eíli laughed at the irony.

Never again would she allow Mother to order her around, or submit to parental wishes about her future, especially if they involved old, rich and revolting men. If that simpleton Mîm could plan a successful escape – after all, it had only been thwarted by Eíli herself, when she’d snitched on Mîm and Fráin to her cousin’s mother – then why couldn’t she?

Her dear parents would have to find someone else to accomplish their dreams of prosperity, or they could die and rot for all she cared. The keys were heavy in her hand, even more so when Eíli remembered what it cost her to get them. But Mother had raised her to work hard for what she wanted, and what Eíli wanted most now was to disappear.

The way grew dimmer and narrower as she descended into the chasm inside the mountain, down towards the Abyss. Even the sounds of the city seemed to drown in such depths, fleeing up, towards the life and the light.

As any dwarven city, Gurulazgoth had a justice, and a place of detainment for those who trespassed it. The prison was carved out of stone, but in nowhere near an intricate and careful a way as the houses of the rich. While the different districts of the city were ranked according to their position along the main crevice, the prison cells lay in the deepest part of it, thus earning their name. The Abyss was mere holes in the stone, barely large enough for a man to lie down inside, his head and feet touching both walls when he did. The black and the silence that ruled there were enough to drive a prisoner mad, if hunger or illness didn’t get to him first.

Eíli’s hope was that Fráin had only been caught days ago. Unless he’d received a beating as a welcome, chances were he was still alive and kicking.

_Fráin._

Eíli realized that she’d not spoken his name for almost fifty years, though he’d never been far from her mind. Even in her darkest moments, when she felt that her body wasn’t hers to use and her only true possession were her memories, his face often came back to haunt her. Those fragments of her childhood tasted both sweet and bitter, evoking the greatest happiness Eíli had ever known, and the worst betrayal she’d ever experienced.

She stumbled, the hem of her gown catching on a rough stone and tearing as she tugged impatiently on her skirts. Huldin was an idiot, but not so dumb as not to notice the disappearance of his set of keys. It wouldn’t take long before he raised the alarm, but Eíli was counting on the delay it would take to search her house before he thought of coming down here.

As she exited a long, winding corridor, the Abyss unraveled before her like some giant insect’s nest, roughly hewn from stone and darkness. There were no guards in sight; the long way up through the city, along with the arm-thick bars that stood between the prisoners and their freedom, were enough to dissuade anyone to attempt an escape.

Eíli walked past the first line of cells as her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, peering into the pools of blackness to discern Fráin’s familiar form. Those men who weren’t asleep or unconscious catcalled and leered at her from behind the bars, but she ignored them. A narrow staircase led to the second level, so up she went, the keys jingling with every step.

It was harder to escape the groping fingers on the slender passage that lined the cells. The dirty hands brushed against her skin, their black fingernails leaving angry gashes on her forearms. Eíli mused that had she been born a man, none of them would’ve felt the liberty to touch her in such a manner. She fought the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her and pushed forward, bearing the shouting, the insults and the bruises as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Eíli? Well well, isn’t it the princess of Gurulazgoth herself.”

Eíli raced towards the voice. “Fráin!” She gasped when she saw the state of his face.

“Not pretty, am I?” he sneered, his lip splitting open before it had really begun to heal. “Lord Dáin’s hospitality is somewhat lacking, of late. Though he did put much heart into the beating, or his henchmen did, at least.”

“Can you walk?” Eíli worried, squinting into the darkness to spot any other injuries.

“As well as any man,” he shot back, “Though such a talent isn’t of much use in a cell.” His eyes widened when she jangled the keys in front of his face, and he pressed against the bars, his gaze fixed upon her hand.

“Your freedom,” Eíli whispered, “But for a price.”

“You were always too expensive for the likes of me,” Fráin scoffed, “But do say.”

Eíli ignored the jab. “If I release you, will you take me with you?”

It was Fráin’s turn to look shocked. “Take you with me? Where?”

“Anywhere.” She clenched her jaw and crossed her arms, the keys well out of his reach but visible, so that he could see she had the means to keep her end of the promise. “As long as it’s far away from here, I don’t care.”

Fráin seemed to ponder the deal, before grinning. “Agreed.”

“You aren’t going to fool me, are you?” Eíli narrowed her eyes in suspicion at how easily he’d consented. “You won’t knock me out and run away without me?”

“You have my word.” Fráin lay a hand on his heart. “By everything I hold dear, I swear I’ll get you out of here if you open this door.”

Even though he’d made a promise, Eíli couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d betray her given the occasion, just like Mîm had, years before. But her cousin had trusted Fráin with her life and her future, and Eíli had no choice but to do the same.

The door screeched open as she unlocked it, and Fráin lunged forward, pushing past her. Eíli almost tumbled from the passage, and her heart sunk as she watched him disappear into the darkness, the cries of the other prisoners drowning out his fading footsteps.

She should’ve known better than to trust the friend of an enemy, Eíli scolded herself. The fatigue, both physical and nervous, was taking its toll on her. She swayed on her feet, the scratches on her neck and collarbones burning anew, the cells swimming before her eyes. Fráin had abandoned her; he’d lied to get his way, as men were wont to do.

She was alone.

“Are you coming, or not?” Fráin’s sharp voice jerked her awake.

He reappeared at the entrance of the Abyss, a bow in his hand, buckling a quiver across his chest. He watched her impatiently as Eíli made her way down, leaving the screams of the prisoners behind her.

At the very last minute, she hesitated. The men and women who dwelled down here had found themselves on the wrong side of the fickle, often fortune-based law system. How many of them were only guilty of not being rich enough to fill the right pockets, or buy their freedom? How many of them had a score to settle with their family, as she did?

“Here,” Eíli muttered, thrusting the keyring into the hands of a famished-looking man in one of the lower cells. “Free the others, and get out of here.”

With these last words she spun around and followed Fráin out of the Abyss, unminding of his mocking stare.

oOoOoOo

“So, what’s the plan?” Eíli whispered as they crept upwards.

Fráin cast her a derisive glance. “You found a way to break me out but you didn’t think of how to escape the city, did you?”

Eíli glowered at him, even though he couldn’t make out her expression in the darkness. “If I’d known what to do, I wouldn’t need your help.”

She heard him laugh ahead of her, his warm chuckle bringing back memories of happier times. If Eíli closed her eyes, she’d see his hands, strong and calloused even when he was younger, and that dimple in his cheek she’d wanted so bad to kiss.

“It’s a good thing I do have a plan, then,” Fráin added, unaware of her trouble.

The depths of Gurulazgoth were deserted, only inhabited by the poor and the scum of society, as Eíli’s parents liked to remind her. The people who lived there worked long and hard days, something she’d never experienced in her life, and would never know if she could have her way. But as they neared the upper levels, more and more dwarves filled the streets, milling about their business, and Eíli and Fráin had to hide in the shadows to avoid being discovered.

Soon, however, they both realized that at this rate of progression, they’d never reach the surface in time.

“We have to cross the whole city,” Fráin muttered into her ear as they hid in a small alley, at the edge of the less prosperous of the richer districts.

In this part of Gurulazgoth, patrols were more frequent than below, and people more particular about the status and appearance of others. In his shabby attire, Fráin would draw unwanted attention as surely as if he strode naked through the streets. There was nothing that the upper class loved so much as a scandal.

The thought gave Eíli an idea.

“We don’t have to hide,” she whispered back, biting her lip for fear of his reaction to her plan.

But Fráin only grinned that wicked grin of his, the one that made her legs go limp. “That’s rich,” he approved, “Oh, I’ll do it only to see their faces.”

The armor was cool and rough under her fingers as Eíli wound her arm under his, resting her other hand upon his vambrace and leaning towards him. “Pretend you’re telling me a story,” she instructed through her teeth, her lips stretched in an adoring smile, “and I’ll pretend I’m fascinated.”

From afar, they made an oddly matched couple, he in worn, tattered armor and she in a gown of purple silk hemmed with gold. Their arms laced together and her face raised towards his lips in implicit adoration, they marched through the city, seemingly uncaring about those who watched them pass.

“Don’t look,” Fráin murmured softly as he gazed down into her eyes, “But that old hag over there is about to have a stroke.”

“That old hag is one of my mother’s friends,” Eíli replied, her neck growing stiff and her cheeks hurting from so much smiling.

“I’ll give her something to tell her, then.”

He reached out to push a strand of hair from her face as they reached the end of the plaza, and Eíli had to lean onto his arm lest she stumbled. How many times had she dreamt of Fráin looking at her with such tenderness? How many nights had she spent, imagining that he would whisk her away from her parents’ house, but knowing it would never happen?

Yet the pain his gesture caused was rewarded with an outraged gasp, as the old gossip raised her hands to her mouth, too shocked by what she’d witnessed to call the guards.

Eíli thought she’d jump out of her skin at every shout that echoed through the chasm, but only curious stares, and the whispers of stunned onlookers and acquaintances, rose around them as they ascended towards the surface. Their certainty and carelessness was their safe conduct through the city, until Eíli saw, in the distance, the blue sky that filtered through the gates.

“Come on,” Fráin muttered, dropping the act as soon as he set foot onto the marble steps that led outside.

Her arms felt cold where he’d been but moments ago, and she shivered in the draft that seeped between the heavy panes of stone. She watched him toss a small purse to one of the guards that stood watch. “She’s with me,” he spoke, and neither of the men spared her but a look as they both crossed the threshold.

Eíli was a child of the mountain, born and raised beneath a sky of stone, with suns and stars of oil and fire to light her days and comfort her nights. As any other young dwarf, she’d been outside once or twice, despite parental recommendations, to see if the world was as high and vast as the stories told. But this time, she would not be going back to the warmth of her home, or to the promise of a cozy life in exchange for her meekness and submission.

This time, Eíli was leaving forever.

For the first time in her life, she was free.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_\- Mîm -_

Mîm didn’t fall asleep that afternoon, her excitement at meeting new people and seeing new landscapes preventing her from dosing off. She ticked off the names in her head: Dwalin, with the bald head, Bofur with the hat. The red-headed Prîm and Nori the wild-haired hunter. And Fíli, of course, who was much more approachable than his title led to believe.

That evening, they set up camp in a deep valley, away from the wind that brought in scents of pine and rain. It was Bofur’s turn to gather wood for the fire, and Mîm watched him tramp off into the woods nearby, singing under his breath.

Their dinner was to be an exact reflection of their lunch; charred meat on a piece of bread, with only some ale from a cask transported at the back of the carriage to celebrate the passing of another day. Once again, she was idle, the men around her doing all the work as if she were made of sugar. Not that she’d be of much use for skinning the deer Nori had killed, since the sound alone of skin torn from the flesh was enough to make her queasy. Dwalin was much better suited for the task, his muscular arms peeling the whole thing off like a coverlet from a bed.

Fíli noticed her twiddling her thumbs and approached. “Come,” he said, “You can give us a hand.” He hesitated slightly before adding: “If you want.”

Mîm swallowed, fearing the kind of task he’d ask of her, and he smiled at her worry. “You can help Nori prepare the skewers” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not afraid of blood, are you?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Stuttering was an unladylike thing to do, but Mîm couldn’t help it, imagining the carnage that lay beyond the bushes, where Nori’s star-shaped hair bobbed as he worked. Yet, adventuring couldn’t only be clean and pleasant, could it? Fráin must’ve done his share of hunting and skinning as well, during his many travels, so why shouldn’t she?

Mîm braced herself for the gore. “I’ll do it,” she nodded, following Fíli towards the group.

So it came to be that she found herself sitting cross-legged by the fire that Bofur started, her eyes watering as the dank logs gave off a think, acrid smoke. The volutes rose towards a clear, starry sky, diluting in the darkness above. Nori dragged the skin towards her, full of already cut-out pieces that she only needed to spear onto the wooden rods that Fíli provided. They worked side by side, he sharpening the pieces with one of his knives, she pushing them onto the skewers until there were five chunks sitting side by side. The meat was tender and warm under her fingers, like small pink cushions.

“Leave more space at the extremities,” Nori advised as he glanced towards the results, which lay upon the deerskin. He didn’t bother with titles, Mîm noted, both slightly offended and glad that he’d accepted her as an equal.

Fíli moved to wipe his knife on the skin. The blade was asymmetrical; longer on the blunt edge, widening away from the handle, and lined with gold. Mîm had seen its twin in his right vambrace, and two more attached to his boots.

“How many knives do you have?” she wondered aloud, gasping slightly when she realized she’d spoken her thoughts.

Fíli smirked. “More than four, that’s all I can tell you.”

“But…” Mîm ran her eyes up and down his figure. His coat was open, but no other hilts were visible under the fur and the leather. Beneath his coat, he wore a blue tunic too thin to disguise a scabbard. “Where do you keep them?”

He was laughing now. “In secret places,” he quipped, “Where my enemies cannot find them. The only way to know is to search me.”

Her face grew hot with embarrassment. “Isn’t laying a hand on royalty considered a crime?” she retorted cheekily.

“Depends on who’s doing the touching,” Fíli winked, “I won’t tell on you, I promise.”

Whether it was the warmth of the fire that heated her skin, or the blush that flowered upon her cheeks, Mîm couldn’t tell. But she felt comfortable, despite the blood that stained her fingers and the cold ground that poked its stones and twigs into her backside. Fíli’s presence wasn’t as foreign as before, his easy smile and friendly eyes a relief for her homesick heart.

Even the meal tasted better that evening, perhaps since she’d had a hand in preparing it.

When the food was eaten and the ale almost gone, the only sound that remained was the whistling of the wind, high above, and the crackling of the smoldering logs. Fíli and Bofur pulled out their pipes, the smoke mingling with the tiny sparks that drifted from the fire. Dwalin pulled out his sword and started to oil it in slow, repetitive gestures.

_Come by the hills to the land where the fancy is free,_

_And stand where the peaks meet the sky and the rocks reach the sea,_

_Where the rivers run clear and the bracken is gold in the sun,_

_And cares of tomorrow must wait till the day is done._

Bofur’s voice rose in song, deep and vibrant. He leaned towards the fire, his eyes fixed upon the flames, his pipe dying in his hand. Mîm listened raptly as images of rolling waves filling her head. She could almost feel the cold spray on her skin and hear the whisper of water on the pebbles.

_Come by the hills to the land where life is a song,_

_And sing while the birds fill the air with their joy all day long,_

_Where the trees sway in time, and even the wind sings in tune,_

_And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done._

Dwalin’s rumbling voice joined him, and then Nori’s and Prîm’s. Fíli was the last to raise his voice in song, and the harmony was complete. The ballad vibrated through her body, pulling at something inside her chest. Mîm had never felt more alive, or more a part of this world. 

_Come by the hills to the land where legend remains,_

_Where stories of old stir the heart and may yet come again,_

_Where the past has been lost and the future is still to be won,_

_And cares of tomorrow must wait till the day is done._

The song spoke of legends and adventure, the very life she’d been dreaming of. And when she thought she’d lost it forever, it found her in the middle of nowhere, sitting by flickering fire, wrapped in furs and shivering with excitement.

Mîm glanced over at her husband. The flames danced in his eyes, bright orange in the blue depths that once again reminded her of a sea she’d never seen. Perhaps he would be willing to take her there, to show her the world, before their duties claimed them both. 

Fíli never took his gaze off the fire, but his hand found hers beneath the furs and squeezed gently, as if he’d read her mind. This time, Mîm welcomed his touch, wrapping her fingers around his and sealing their unspoken promise.

oOoOoOo

Midnight found Mîm wide awake, eyes prickly with missing sleep, her hips stiff and aching. Despite the pile of furs she’d wrapped herself in to both ward off the chill and cushion her body against the hard ground, she was barely getting any rest.

Bofur’s song had acted like a lullaby, soothing her mind and calming her senses, but as soon as all the others went to sleep – save for Nori, who had the first watch – her ears started to pick up sounds she’d not distinguished before. Things that scratched, whined, moaned and crept through the darkness seemed to surround her from all sides, sometimes so close that Mîm opened her eyes, expecting to see something staring back at her.

Beside her, Fíli was dreaming, stretched out on his back, with his head propped against a rolled-up cloak and his arms crossed upon his chest. His mouth was slightly open, a soft snore rising from his throat. The flames reflected in the beads that decorated his beard, his blond hair shining like spun gold.

Dwalin had opted for the same position, while Bofur slept curled up in a ball, never parting from his hat, an arm under his cheek for a pillow. Prîm was clutching his hammer in his sleep, holding it close like a beloved, whining faintly as his eyelids twitched in dream.

Mîm had been spoiled by a life of soft mattresses and lush blankets, and silent nights under vaults of stone. She tossed and turned, sighing, increasingly aware of the uneven ground beneath her, of the unfortunate position of a small rock under her ribs, and the tickle of the grass on her neck. Nori’s mocking gaze shamed her into silence, but still the sleep wouldn’t come.

Her senses were overloaded with information, and she soon gave up, guessing instead what kind of beasts could produce the noises she was hearing. Nothing too dangerous, most probably, or the others wouldn’t have fallen asleep so easily. Or so Mîm hoped.

When the time came for Nori to wake Fíli for the second watch, she was counting the stars, trying to remember the constellations she’d read about in her books.

“Can’t sleep?” Fíli mumbled, rubbing his eyes and yawning as Nori went to lie down beneath his cloak.

Mîm shook her head. “There are too many noises,” she muttered, gesturing towards the surrounding darkness. “I think I’m not used to them yet.”

Her words made him smile. “The first time I left the Blue Mountains with my brother, I couldn’t sleep outside either. It gets easier, though, but the first nights will be long and hard.”

“But you got used to it?” she asked, propping herself on one elbow as he sat cross-legged beside her, facing the fire.

“I did.” He smiled again, and reached for a log to add into the flames. “Now I can barely sleep if there’s a roof above my head. I miss the wind, and the rustling of the leaves.”

“A dwarf who can’t sleep inside a mountain. Your uncle must be awfully ashamed.” She’d meant it as a teasing, but regretted her quip as his face grew serious.

“My uncle barely sleeps as well, nowadays,” he mumbled, “Though not because of the silence.”

Mîm bit her lip. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” She lay down again, her hands crossed on her chest, certain that he wouldn’t want to speak to her again.

The sky was pitch black, without a single cloud to hide the stars from view, and she marveled at the sight of such immensity. There, up north – or was it east? - was the constellation of the Dragon, its winds outstretched in flight. Mîm searched for its sister, the Serpent, and found it twinkling a few stars below.

“My uncle, Thorin…” Fíli’s low voice drifted to her ears, “He led us back to Erebor, to reclaim the kingdom after Smaug chased our people away, almost two hundred years ago.”

He stirred the embers with the tip of a stick.

“He was – is – like a father to me, only he’s not been the same since he’d set foot back into the mountain. The gold, it breeds a sickness that runs in his veins. The dragon sickness, we call it.” Fíli cast a wary glance towards his sleeping comrades, checking that none of them could overhear him. “He’s been ailing for two years now. The fear for his treasure keeps him awake, and gnaws at his sanity.” He poked at the smoldering wood. “He won’t sleep, he barely eats. And he sits there, amongst his treasure, shying away from those who would help him.”

Pushing herself up, Mîm wrapped the furs around her shoulders and sat. Her bleary eyes watered if she stared at the flames for too long, so she chose to focus on Fíli instead. “I’m sorry,” she said again, for lack of better words of comfort.

Her husband looked sad and lost, and she wanted to hold him, if only to show him that even if she couldn’t help, she still cared; and that had to matter, didn’t it? She reached out for his hand, but he was sitting too far away. Mîm touched his shoulder instead, the fur of his coat soft and warm under her fingers.

Fíli turned towards her. “I don’t want to be king,” he murmured. “The same sickness runs in my veins, I know it.”

Mîm understood what such a confession must’ve cost him, and to see Fíli so open and vulnerable made her heart ache. “Maybe if you loved something more than gold, perhaps that could help you fight it?” she offered quietly, watching as he pondered over her words.

“Maybe.” He tossed the stick into the flames and tilted his head back to look at the sky. “Only love doesn’t really come into it when you’re a prince, or so I’ve heard.”

He was waiting for her answer, Mîm knew, and the next words she’d say could either bring him comfort, or pain. She wondered if he had any idea about her own lack of freedom regarding their marriage. He certainly didn’t know about Fráin, and their plans to run away together, to fulfill a childhood promise; a promise now meaningless, as she’d sworn her life to Fíli, on her own honor and the honor of her family.

“Who knows?” she shrugged, choosing her wording with caution. “Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to have both. After all, you did survive a war against an army of orcs, and what were the odds?”

Fíli scoffed, his shoulders relaxed, the tension and worry leaving his body. “Maybe,” he said again, but this time his voice was filled with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics of the song the dwarves are signing come from "Come by the hills" by Loreena McKennitt.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_-_ _E_ _í_ _li_ _-_

Freedom was an uncomfortable thing, Eíli was learning, cold and dreary.

Her pony trudged along with the rest of the group, its nose hung low towards the grass, and from time to time it would pull the reins from her hands to bite off a mouthful. Eíli would then kick it back into movement, swearing inwardly at the beast’s persistence.

The sunny day that had marked their flight from Gurulazgoth had been followed by a cold night, and the sun that rose the next morning had been veiled and fickle. With nothing to cover her save for her dress, which was hardly meant for outside weather, Eíli found herself shivering from dusk till dawn, and then the whole day over.

It didn’t help that the men she rode with would undress her with their eyes, peeling off what little clothes she had as their gazes raked over her body. Thus, as soon as she’d understood how to stir her pony around, Eíli had held it back, apart from the rest of the group so as to keep herself out of their sight.

“We stop for the night,” Fráin called out from the head of the column, and directed his own mount towards a group of short pines that grew along the ridge.

The trees were slender and short, offering a meager respite from the wind, but in her state of exhaustion, Eíli was grateful for a halt. Her skin had grown numb from the cold, her fingers aching at first and then stiffening around the reins. Even her limbs, protected as they were by the skirts and her soft leather boots were tense and tired.

As the men dismounted, tying their ponies in a pack to one of the pines, she led her mount towards them and slid to the ground, her knees almost buckling under her weight. This was the one occasion she couldn’t escape the stares and the bawdy jests, and more than one man offered to warm her up for the night.

While Fráin took no part in their jeering, he didn’t discourage it either, watching her from a distance with hooded eyes. If he felt any gratitude for her help in escaping the prison, he had yet to show it. But he’d kept his part of the bargain, so Eíli supposed she should be thankful for it.

Fráin’s men scattered, lighting a fire and fetching food, she watched them from afar. They were a ragtag band, disorganized and rebellious, and only followed Fráin because unlike them, he seemed to pursue a goal, one that he was yet to disclose.

Fráin excluded, they were four; she’d learned their names, as it was a useful thing to know. In her experience, men tended to appreciate her remembering them, and here, in the wilderness, who knew what could make a difference between life and death.

There was Sudri, a large, squat dwarf with a greying mane. His beard was fashioned into a net, as the men from the Iron Hills liked to do, which marked him as a compatriot; though Eíli doubted he felt anything akin to camaraderie towards her, from the scornful looks he’d been giving her.

He was the least disreputable of them all.

Thurin and Fórin were brothers, miners like Fráin from what she’d gathered from their conversations. Both were tall and broad-shouldered, with pockmarked faces and bright red beards, arms like pillars and foul tempers. They both courted her crudely and persistently, raging when she ignored their attempts.

Eíli steered clear of them both, and if she’d had anything to cover herself up, she would’ve, as she feared that someday, when Fráin wasn’t around, they would make good on their promises.

Yet they were predictable, unlike the odd, quiet Bóli who haunted her steps when no-one was watching, creeping closer at night until she woke with his breath down her neck. He followed her wherever she went, grinning like a madman, a finger against his lips to warn her from telling.

Tonight was no different. As she sat cross-legged by the fire, as far as she could from the brothers, he shuffled closer, smiling at her as if she’d invited him over.

Eíli prided herself on knowing how to handle the persistence of men, but her instincts told her that Bóli wouldn’t be discouraged by coldness or mockery, while encouraging him could lead to worse endings still. The long, mean-looking cutlass he carried seemed sharp enough to murder everyone in their sleep without making any sound, and Mahal knew what he’d do to her then.

Despite the heat of the fire, a cold sweat trickled down her back at the idea. Her stomach churned, and not only because of hunger.

She lowered her eyes, trying to ignore the painful cramps that would likely wake her up at night. The men favored red meat for lunch and dinner, and while Eíli understood that she couldn’t be picky, the idea of eating even one bloody morsel made her sick.

“Still not eating?” Fráin called to her from the other side of the fire. He shrugged when she shook her head mutely. “All the more for us, then.”

“I have a sausage you can taste, if you want,” Thurin guffawed, eliciting a howl of laughter from his brother.

Fráin chuckled into his beard, and Bóli slid closer. Eíli understood then that she needed to leave, and the sooner the better, before one of the brothers assaulted her, or the wretch beside her killed them all.

Only where would she go? And how?

Her plan had stopped at the city threshold, as she’d trusted Fráin to take the reins from there. And while he’d kept his word, he’d been too secretive about their destination for her liking.

“Where are we heading?” she’d asked him on their second day, after they’d met up with his men a few miles away from Gurulazgoth.

“I have an unfinished business to attend to,” he’d shot back, refusing to elaborate when she’d prodded for further details. “You’ve asked me to get you away from the city, and here we are. You’re free to leave if you want, or you can shut up and follow.”

With no better options in sight, Eíli’d huffed and relented. She detested the feeling of helplessness.

Releasing Fráin was a move of desperation and anger, and while at first she’d nourished the hope that what had once been broken could be mended, Eíli soon realized that he’d never look at her the way he gazed at Mîm. And while she preferred indifference to lewdness, Eíli had no desire to stick around if she wasn’t wanted.

She tried to recall her lessons in geography, the map of Rhovanion blurry in her mind. If there were any settlements, dwarven or other, around the Iron Hills, she couldn’t remember, but she was certain that there must be people living somewhere nearby. It was only a matter of reaching them, and convincing them to take her in until she could find a better situation for herself.

Eíli believed she could be quite persuasive, if she wanted to be.

oOoOoOo

The following day, Eíli woke with Bóli’s face inches from her own. His eyes were open, unblinking, and for a moment she thought he’d died. But then he grinned at her, and she flinched away, her relief short-lived.

“Bóli, you creep, get out of there.”

For once, Fráin chose to intervene, but the cold, loathing look that Bóli gave him made Eíli shudder. His eyes were fixed on Fráin’s throat and the artery that pulsed there, beneath the flesh and skin, as if he considered tearing it out with his teeth; and perhaps he would, but Eíli hoped she’d be long gone by then.

The wind howled, vaulting over the hills and tearing into their clothing. The pines cracked under its gusts, and the ponies huddled together for warmth. Eíli was almost looking forward to the day’s ride, so that she could bury her hands into the thick fur of her mount.

“You can ride with me, if you want. Or ride me, that suits me too.” Fórin winked at her, his ugly face beaming with pride at his joke.

Eíli ignored him, nibbling at the small slice of hard bread that Sudri had given her. That would be her only meal of the day, and she tried to make it last for as long as she could.

“Oi, I’m talking to you.” Fórin shouted. “What, you think you’re too good for the likes of me?” He tossed the reins of his pony to his brother and advanced upon her. “I’ll give you something else to taste, see if you’re still as proud then.”

She’d never get to her pony in time, Eíli realized, not with Thurin in her way. Her heart skipped a beat as a cursory glance told her that no-one would save her; not Sudri, not Thurin and certainly not Bóli, who was watching the scene, his eyes wide with excitement. Her whole body felt sluggish and heavy as she tried to run, exhausted from too little sleep and food.

Eíli stumbled and fell, the bread flying from her hands.

“Enough.”

Fráin’s arm halted Fórin’s advance, barring his passage. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Then we make time,” Fórin growled. “I want to teach her some respect.”

“You’ll teach her nothing, and you’ll do as I say.” Fráin matched Fórin’s angry stare, and didn’t back down as the older dwarf balled his hands into fists, glaring at Eíli over his shoulder. “Either you get up on your pony, or you get out.”

Behind Fórin, his brother Thurin shifted uneasily, hesitating between supporting his brother and his loyalty towards his leader. His gaze slid towards Sudri, who drew his battle axe from his back and swung it over his shoulder.

“I said,” Fráin leaned towards his opponent, his nose almost touching Fórin’s, “Back off.”

Reluctantly, the red-haired dwarf turned away, grumbling under his breath. He shrugged off the hand his brother lay upon his shoulder and swung into his saddle, kicking the pony savagely into a gallop. Thurin followed suit, and even Bóli looked disappointed.

Fráin watched Eíli push herself from the ground and pick up her slice of bread, dusting off the dirt that stuck to the crumb. He didn’t move a muscle to help her, his jaw still clenched from the confrontation.

“All right everyone. Saddle up,” he said. “We leave at once.”

oOoOoOo

They rode hard that day, faster and longer than ever before, barely stopping to eat. Fráin pushed them forward mercilessly, snapping at those who complained, his narrowed eyes fixed upon the rocky horizon. Eíli wondered about the goal he was pursuing so desperately, until she saw, in the distance, dark specks moving against the greenery of the landscape.

“At last!”

Fráin whooped and spurred his mount into a gallop, Sudri and the brothers on his tail. Eíli followed despite herself, her pony following its comrades into the fierce ride. She gritted her teeth and gripped the reins as they hurtled down the hill, cursing Fráin’s impatience.

The specks grew into mounted silhouettes surrounding a carriage that crawled through the valley, following a narrow road. Just as she wondered who the riders were, Fráin drew an arrow from his quiver and notched it, letting it fly into one of the dwarves ahead.

For they were indeed dwarves, their beards and clothing marking them as belonging to the royal court of Erebor; the carriage itself bore the sigil of the King under the Mountain, gold engraved into the dark wooden surface.

She understood Fráin’s hurry, then, and his hatred towards the men who guarded his treasure. Her blood ran cold with fear.

“Surrender!” Fráin cried out, aiming for the head of a blond dwarf. “Or I swear I’ll put an arrow into his eye!”

The battle was short, as the retinue from Erebor dropped their weapons when they saw their prince’s life threatened at arrow’s point.

“Who are you?” Fíli growled, lowering his sword in helpless rage. “What do you want?”

Beside him, two of his people were trying to save the life of their comrade. The dwarf was thrashing on the ground, Fráin’s arrow protruding from his throat. Blood oozed from his mouth in crimson rivulets, bubbling at his lips as he tried to speak.

“What I want?” Fráin laughed bitterly, the arm holding the bow shaking dangerously. “I want my beloved, you witless goblin arse-licker!”

The door of the carriage swung open and Mîm stepped out, quivering in terror, or, perhaps, relief. She took one look at the dying dwarf and blanched.

“Mîm!”

Mîm turned to the sound of Fráin’s voice, her eyes filled with tears. “What have you done, Fráin?” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I’ve come to save you!” he boasted. “As I’d promised! Remember?” His voice was high-pitched with excitement. “And I’ve brought you a gift!”

Someone pulled her from the saddle. Eíli screamed, realizing that she’d been betrayed once again, and fought her opponent with all the energy she had left; but Sudri was too strong and she, too tired. She landed on her hands and knees as he tossed her to the ground, crying out in pain as her wrist twisted under her weight.

“She betrayed us,” Fráin roared. “She betrayed you!”

His boot caught Eíli in the stomach, the metallic tip crushing her abdomen and lifting her off the ground. The pain was like nothing she’d ever known. Her blood pounded in her ears and her vision swam; she heard herself scream, far away, through a red, burning fog.

Before she lost consciousness, she heard Mîm’s voice: “I’m sorry, Fráin. It’s too late. I gave him my word.”


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_-_ _Mîm_ _-_

“Hold’im down!”

Bofur pulled the scarf from his neck and held it to the wound, while Nori wrestled Prîm’s hands away from his neck, before he tore the arrow out. The multi-colored wool turned crimson as it imbibed with Prîm’s blood. He gurgled, his eyes wide in fear, as his hands clawed at his friends’ clothes in a desperate attempt to hold on to life.

Mîm didn’t even get the chance to know him, and now he was gone.

Behind her, Fíli cursed. Bofur removed his hat, his hands slick with blood. A tear ran down his hardened face, and her own eyes watered at the sight of his grief.

“Mîm!”

Fráin’s joyful voice made her queasy, the happiness within it a stark contrast to the pointless loss of a life she’d just witnessed. Mîm turned around, and saw the jubilation on his face as he held his bow drawn, the arrow inches from Fíli’s face.

Her guts twisted in dread, and her legs shook as she whispered: “What have you done?” a hand before her mouth, fearing that she’d be sick then and there from revulsion and terror.

“I’ve come to save you! As I’d promised! Remember?” His face fell slightly when he noticed her expression, like a little boy disappointed with his birthday present.

“Oh, Fráin…”

He ignored her dismay. “And I’ve brought you a gift!” he pouted, gesturing towards his left.

A scream tore through the valley. Mîm flinched at the despair in the woman’s voice, before she recognized her own cousin in the dirty, disheveled thing who fought for her life in the arms of one of Fráin’s men. Before Mîm could utter a word, he threw Eíli to the ground, and she cried out in pain at the impact.

Mîm looked at Fráin again in bewilderment, struggling to recognize the kind boy she used to know in the callous, cold-hearted man who killed without remorse and manhandled women for pleasure. He, better than anyone, should know how it felt to be mistreated.

Her childhood friend’s face twisted in anger at her absence of reply. “She betrayed us,” he shrieked, “She betrayed you!” And he kicked Eíli in the stomach, so hard that she was thrown backwards, howling in agony.

This was too much for Mîm to bear. “Stop it!” she screamed, “Fráin, stop it!”

“Mîm, no!” Fíli yelled out, trying to catch her arm, but Mîm avoided both his grasp and his gaze, launching herself between Fráin and her cousin.

Eíli’s eyes fluttered closed, but to Mîm’s relief her breath remained slow and steady. There were purple bruises on her wrists, and fresh, angry gashes on her throat and cleavage; Mîm refused to imagine what she’d been through in the hands of Fráin and his men. How on earth had a lady like Eíli found herself in such company?

“I’ve come to save you!” Fráin repeated. “We promised we’d run away together, if you should ever find yourself forced to marry….”

His eyes were pleading, but at least he’d lowered his bow, distracted by her intervention. From the corner of her eye, Mîm saw Fíli slide a hand into his coat.

“I’m sorry, Fráin, it’s too late. I gave Fíli my word.”

She dared not face her husband, knowing the hurt and betrayal she’d find on his face. Only hours before, he’d entrusted her with his fears, while she’d let him believe she could someday love him. And now her lies and scheming, no matter how harmless they’d seemed at the time, would break his heart into pieces.

Mîm’s own heart ached in her chest, and her throat constricted with the tears she’d not allowed herself to shed.

“But…you promised you’d come with me!” Fráin stomped his foot and advanced towards her, his hand outstretched to grab her arm.

“That was fifty years ago!” she exploded, wrenching her sleeve free from his fingers. “We were children, Fráin! Only children!” Tears, once held back, now streamed down her face, blurring her vision, and Mîm wiped them away angrily with her sleeve as she went to kneel beside her cousin and eased Eíli’s head into her lap, afraid she was dead as well. Much to her relief, Eíli’s steady breath ghosted over her wrist. “You’re too late! Why didn’t you come before, when I was still free?”

Fráin’s face twisted into a grimace of rage. “Your dear cousin, she betrayed us!” He jerked his chin towards the unconscious form. “She told your mother I was coming, and guess who was waiting for me at the gates? Dáin Ironfoot, and the whole city guard.” He spat onto the ground. “She stole your freedom, Mîm! She stole your future. Do you still want to protect her? Why?”

Mîm shivered as her blood ran cold. The head laying in her lap suddenly grew very heavy, as if the lies within weighed it down. The beautiful face and the long lashes resting on perfect, pink cheeks, all of it was but a façade for wickedness and deceit.

But how could she judge Eíli, when she knew herself to be no better? Hadn’t she lied to Fíli’s face while her father bound their hands together, thinking of another man when she swore him her loyalty? After all, Eíli had promised her nothing, while Mîm had spoken her lies without batting an eye.

“It’s too late,” she whispered, pulling her hand away from her cousin’s neck, where she’d been feeling for a pulse. “I pledged my life to Fíli. I can’t - I won’t - renounce my vows.” Her voice shook and she lowered her head, so that neither Fíli nor Fráin would see her grief.

“No!” her childhood friend yelled out, the leather of his bow squeaking as he tightened his grip on the weapon. The arrow still notched, he spun around towards his rival, only to feel the edge of one of Fíli’s many knives under his chin.

“If you value your life,” her husband hissed, “Tell your men to drop their weapons. Now.”

Torn between desperation and fear, Fráin vacillated on the edge of sanity. For an instant, Mîm feared he’d do something foolish, but then he threw his bow to the ground and stepped away, motioning to his men to do the same. But Mîm could tell they hadn’t expected him to back down, or even lose. They exchanged furious glances, rebellion growing within their ranks. One of them scowled and spat.

“I won’t surrender to no princeling,” he growled as he swung his axe, aiming for Fíli’s neck. “If you haven’t got the guts to do what we came here for, I will!”

Fíli moved like lightening, before her cry of alarm could leave her lips. He pushed the heavy blade aside with one hand as he dove towards his opponent. The dagger flashed in sunlight, and came out red and glistening from the tip of the dwarf’s head in a sickening crunch.

Bile rose in Mîm’s throat as her husband pulled out his weapon, the wet whisper matching the moment when the man’s knees buckled under his dead weight. Fíli eyed the remaining party in silence as they drew back and ran towards the hills, leaving their ponies and their leader behind.

Fráin was the only one who didn’t move, watching his comrade die with an expression of horror. Mîm realized that he’d not imagined this outcome, planning instead for a glorious fight he’d win, before whisking her away from his rival’s arms. He looked lost and so terribly young, but the time when she could still console him was long gone.

“Go.” Fíli’s voice was cold as steel as he spoke. “For the respect I bear for my lady, I’ll spare your life.” He gestured towards the wilderness with the dagger in his hand. “Go. Run before I change my mind.”

Fráin shifted on his feet, watching her uncertainly. “So…that’s it?” He seemed to understand at last that his plan had failed, and that childhood promise or no, her choice was made. Mîm wondered if his heart was as broken as hers, the shards cutting her in two: a piece for each of the two men, who were ready to kill one other to claim her.

If she wanted them both to live, Mîm knew she must renounce her dreams once and for all.

“Goodbye, Fráin.”

The weakness of her words fell short of all the moments they’d shared, but it was all she could muster. Mîm watched her best friend turn away and leave, his anguished face engraved in her memory forever.

oOoOoOo

The flames rose high, nourished by the wind that still blew through the valley, howling in sorrow as if it knew of their loss. Prîm’s body burned on the makeshift pyre, and even Mîm had added some wood into the pile, grieving for a man she’d barely known. Now she could only discover him through his comrades’ tales, if any of them was willing to share them with her.

The dwarves stood around the pyre, their eyes dry and their faces hard. None of them had forbade her from participating to the ceremony, but Mîm knew she wasn’t truly wanted either. In a way, it was her fault if Prîm had died.

“Thus leaves Prîm, son of Práin,” Fíli began, his voice hoarse with emotion. His eyes were fixed upon his friends’ corpse as the flames licked his armor. “A good and loyal man.”

He balled his hands into fists, as though chafing at his own powerlessness to bring back Prîm from the dead. Mîm yearned to touch his hand, to provide a small dose of comfort and perhaps convey how sorry she was for Fráin’s actions, but she feared that her gesture may not be welcome.

She’d already lost a friend that day; she wasn’t ready for another rejection.

“A skilled warrior,” Dwalin continued gruffly, his thick arms crossed on his chest.

“An excellent cook.” Nori wiped his nose with his sleeve.

Bofur was the last to speak. “A trusted friend,” he said finally, twisting his hat in hands still marred with Prîm’s blood.

The flames appeared blurry, and it took Mîm an instant to realize that she was crying again. Her face was numb with cold, and the rivulets that ran down her cheeks soon burned under the bitter bite of the wind. Mîm didn’t move a muscle to wipe them away, bearing the discomfort as a well-deserved punishment.

Fíli gave the signal before the body was fully consumed. “Let’s go,” he muttered, sparing one last glance to the pyre before he turned on his heels and walked away.

Obeying his command, the other dwarves gathered the discarded weapons of their attackers and rounded up their mounts, the newcoming ponies acquainting themselves with their comrades through cautious sniffing. When no-one was watching, Mîm ran her fingers through the dark mane of one of them, enjoying the animal’s warmth since she was deprived of the comfort of her own kind.

None of the men spared her so much as a glance as they prepared to leave again. Fíli himself hadn’t spoken a word in her direction, be it kind or otherwise, avoiding her gaze, his jaw clenched in anger.

As Mîm went to climb back into the carriage, she saw that her embroidery hoop had tumbled out of it, and that her half-finished work had been trodden into the mud in the confusion of the skirmish. It was another piece of her life that she’d be leaving behind, and as Mîm closed the door behind her, she accepted the loss as another price to pay for her deeds.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_-_ _E_ _í_ _li_ _-_

The pain was almost unbearable, a steady burn in her midsection that flared up viciously as soon as she moved. Eíli learned it the hard way, screaming out in agony when she stirred for the first time, still dazed and sleepy.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she opened her eyes, trying to discern where she was. The surface beneath her was rough and fluffy, as was the wall against her back; wherever that was, it bumped and swayed rhythmically, sending new waves of pain rippling from her stomach.

It appeared that, in addition to his betrayal, that bastard Fráin had truly maimed her. Eíli hoped that Fíli had killed him, in the end; a fitting vengeance against them both.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice said, and Eíli recognized it at once, marveling at how ironic life could be. Just as she was thinking of her dear cousin, here she was.

“Oh, it’s you,” she sneered weakly, gritting her teeth in pain as she pushed herself up on the carriage seat, leaning against the wall for support.

Mîm scowled, the worried expression she’d been wearing moments before wiped off from her face. She was chewing on her lip again, as she always did when she was upset or annoyed. Eíli guessed that her sole presence was the cause of her cousin’s distress, and enjoyed that idea quite a lot.

“I see you’re not wearing black,” she quipped. “I take it that your lover didn’t kill your husband, after all.”

“No thanks to you,” Mîm snapped, “Besides, he’s not my lover.”

Eíli raised an eyebrow at her cousin’s denial. “I wonder if your husband will believe that.”

“You’re horrible.” Mîm reached out to push a curtain aside, glancing out of the window of the carriage. Her eyes grew sad at whatever she saw out there, and she let the curtain fall back into place.

“What were you doing with him, anyway?”

So she was feeling jealous after all. Eíli smiled to herself at how transparent Mîm could be. Not that she’d tell her anything about her flight from Gurulazgoth; Mîm wouldn’t understand, and even less support her decision, like the obedient, fearful soul that she was.

“Perhaps I merely wanted to see you two reunited,” Eíli lied. “I happen to find star-crossed lovers terribly romantic.”

“We’re not lovers!”

Mîm flinched at the sound of her own raised voice, shaking with fury. When nothing happened following her outburst, she spoke again, this time quietly: “Fráin told me you warned my mother he was coming for me.” Since Eíli didn’t reply, she continued: “How did you know?”

Eíli remembered the letter she’d found in her cousin’s bag, the very one she’d packed for her escape with Fráin. “I have my ways,” she eluded the question, wincing as the carriage lurched sideways due to some bigger bump on the road.

“Why did you have to do it?” Mîm sighed, talking to herself more than to Eíli. “Just as I was starting to find some peace…”

Eíli’s blood boiled with fury at her prissy demeanor. “Peace?” she spat out, her hands balling into fists out of their own volition despite the pain the movement caused. “You deserve none, you simpering fool. Not after what you’ve done to me.”

Her outburst seemed to catch her cousin unawares. Mîm’s eyes widened in shock. “What have I done?” she whined, wringing her eyes and flinching backwards, into the opposite corner of the carriage. Her eyes started to water.

Eíli felt tired all of a sudden. Instead of the satisfaction she’d anticipated, her cousin’s tears brought her no joy.

“Stop crying,” she muttered, rubbing her injured stomach gingerly. “Unless you’re crying for Fráin. But I suppose the bastard managed to survive, didn’t he?”

Mîm didn’t dignify her with a response, her tears drying on her face. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, eliciting a grimace of disgust from Eíli.

“Don’t you have a handkerchief for that?” she shook her head, “What kind of future queen are you?”

“A non-existent one, I suppose.” Mîm cast a baleful glance in her direction. “Now that Fíli knows about Fráin, I don’t suppose he’ll want me anymore.”

Eíli mused that she should’ve felt something at these words; triumph, happiness, or even a small measure of peace. But all she found was emptiness and pain. Even the idea of finally getting her revenge wasn’t as satisfying as she’d imagined it to be.

“Then you’ll get to know what it feels like, to be alone,” she whispered.

Her cousin frowned. “What are you talking about?” she muttered, her plain face scrunched up in confusion. “Everybody loves you.”

“Everybody wants me, and it’s not the same thing.”

How young she was, Eíli thought, how sheltered and naïve. Just like everyone else, Mîm had been fooled by the glitter and the smiles, while inside Eíli was screaming.

“You’ve no idea of what you’ve done, have you?” she said matter-of-factly as she wrapped her arms around her body for warmth.

The carriage interior was lined with lush velvet, yet the thick fabric wasn’t enough to keep the chill out. Eíli was still wearing nothing but her low-cut dress, which was now more a dirty rag than a gown. Her only consolation was that her parents wouldn’t recognize her in such a state, should they manage to find her.

“I’ve never wronged you,” Mîm replied haughtily. She seemed to be done with crying at last.

“Not that you remember. But I do.”

oOoOoOo

They were still almost children, then, Eíli recalled, but old enough already to measure the consequences of their actions. She and Mîm and Fráin, three friends uncaring of their parents’ status or wealth. Just as both girls were blossoming into women, Fráin was growing up to become a man, and a handsome one at that.

Eíli’s mother had started to object to her associations not long before, not minding Mîm’s company as much as that of the miners’ son. That day, Eíli’d escaped motherly surveillance to join her two friends, pretexting a meeting with a more acceptable company. She knew the risks, but her need to see them, and especially Fráin, had been stronger than her fear of punishment.

For even then, she knew what Mother was capable of.

When she’d arrived to the indoor gardens of Gurulazgoth, she’d listened for the sound of laughter; but it was Fráin’s whisper she heard instead.

“Eíli! Over here!”

He’d motioned for her to join him behind a flowery fence, and she’d wriggled through the bushes at the expense of her brand-new dress. When Eíli had emerged on the other side, breathless and disheveled, she’d found him waiting for her in a small, secluded corner of the gardens.

“Where’s Mîm?” she’d asked, secretly glad to have a moment alone with Fráin.

He was taller than any of the other boys her age, and broader in the shoulders. Fráin was already starting to learn his father’s trade, and the sight of his muscular arms had made Eíli flustered.

He’d grinned. “She’ll never find us here. Do you want to hide with me?”

How could she refuse? Despite the unfairness towards Mîm, Eíli’d never heard a more tempting suggestion in her young life. Fráin had taken her blush as an agreement, and before she could reply, his warm hand had caught hers in a strong, yet gentle grip.

They’d retreated further into the gardens, and Eíli had felt hotter by the second. Fráin’s dark hair bounced before her as he took her deeper still, turning around from time to time to smile at her. He didn’t hate her, then, Eíli remembered.

“We’ll see if she can find us,” Fráin had whispered at last, crouching behind a bush.

She could feel the warmth of his body as she sat next to him, and the scent of his skin. His eyes had crinkled in glee at his prank, or perhaps was it at her own presence beside him? Whatever the cause, Eíli had found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his mouth, and the dimple on his left cheek that only showed when he smiled.

His lips had been soft and hesitating, but his hands so sure when he’d pulled her close, kissing her behind that bush, in the heart of the gardens.

It was Mîm’s shocked gasp that pulled them apart.

“What are you doing?” Her cousin stood before them, her mouth open in consternation, her hands on her hips.

“Come on, Mîm, what does it look like?” Fráin had laughed, Eíli’s hand still in his.

“You shouldn’t!” Mîm had stomped her foot to emphasize her disapproval.

Emboldened by Fráin’s kiss, Eíli had raised her chin in defiance. “And why not? Are you jealous?” It was a cruel question, as even then she knew herself to be prettier than her cousin.

Mîm had hesitated just long enough to confirm Eíli’s suspicions. “Jealous?” she’d stammered, blushing, “I’m not jealous. But you shouldn’t, it’s not right.”

By then Fráin must’ve realized that she’d not be calmed while he was holding Eíli’s hand. He’d crawled out from behind the bush to stand before Mîm, his arms open in a gesture of appeasement.

“It’s alright, Mîm,” he’d cooed, “It’s nothing.”

Eíli’s heart had broken at his words. “Nothing?” she’d shrieked, “You just kissed me, you fool. It didn’t feel like nothing to me!” Picking up her skirts, she’d flounced away from the gardens without another look, lest they saw the tears of humiliation that streamed down her cheeks.

Of course, she’d lied to her mother about the state of her dress, pretending she’d gone strolling with Lóni and Torri, and that she’d fallen through a hedge by accident. Eíli had cried when she went to sleep that night, before realizing that if Fráin had kissed her once, he’d be willing to do it again if Mîm wasn’t around. All she had to do was to ensure they’d find themselves alone again.

She’d woken with a smile upon her face, prancing into the hall for breakfast, certain of her own invincibility. Her stomach had twisted in dread when she saw her mother waiting for her there, Mîm at her side.

“Thank you, Mîm,” Mother had purred, caressing her cousin’s cheek. “You may leave us now; I must speak with my daughter about this.”

Eíli shook in terror as she met Mîm’s satisfied gaze. She didn’t get the chance to ask what exactly she’d told, before she was left alone with her mother in the drafty hall.

Even today, she quivered when she recalled the punishment she’d had to endure in retaliation for her lies and that one kiss. Mother knew everything, and had showed no mercy. As she’d sobbed and screamed, Mîm’s contentment had come to haunt her, etching that sickening smile into her memory.

oOoOoOo

“I couldn’t even leave the house unsupervised,” Eíli concluded, making a show of examining her nails so that Mîm wouldn’t see what it cost her not to shudder at the recollection of the events. “Not before I was of age, anyway. Instead of friends, I had guards, and instead of freedom, punishment to remind me that my body wasn’t mine to use.”

In front of her, her cousin shrank back, her gaze turned inward, perhaps examining her own role in the story.

“I didn’t know.” Mîm’s voice was a horrified whisper. “I never knew your mother did this….” She swallowed, unable to continue.

“I know.” Eíli watched her squirm, enjoying her discomfort in a retaliation that came fifty years too late. “But you never asked, did you? It was convenient, I suppose, to believe that I’d abandoned you out of arrogance.”

Her cousin glowered, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, still unaware of Eíli’s discomfort at the chill inside the carriage. “You’ve always been so awful to Fráin and me. What was I to think?”

Eíli sighed, the pain and exhaustion taking their toll on her. “Think what you want,” she snapped, “But the question isn’t why I did what I did. My vengeance may be petty, but it’s not without grounds. The real question is –” she looked her cousin in the eye, “– why did you?”


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_\- Eíli -_

The storm caught them in the evening, the dark clouds rolling in from behind like an ambush. Though Fíli and his men had pressed forward all day, fearing that Fráin and his men would attempt another attack, they couldn’t escape the skies’ wrath. 

The rain started out as a gentle pitter-patter on the roof of the carriage, and soon grew into a steady drumbeat. Lightning flashed in through the windows, and thunder cracked above their heads like a giant whip. The velvet curtains soaked in the downpour, trickling water into the cabin, so that Eíli and Mîm had to huddle in the middle of the benches, forced to face each other despite their shared reluctance to do so. Yet Eíli was glad to be out of the rain, sparing but a quick thought for the men who rode alongside them. 

Her satisfaction was short-lived. 

The carriage jolted and tilted to the side, earning a startled cry from Mîm, who’d almost fallen asleep on her seat. Eíli had to grab the window casing lest she slid into the puddle that formed at her feet, hissing in pain as the movement jarred her abdomen. 

“What’s going on?” Mîm asked foolishly, “Why aren’t we moving?” 

The wind carried yelling and the neighing of scared ponies. Eíli dared a look out the window, only to have her face lashed by the merciless rain. Pushing her drenched hair from her face, she spotted the problem at once. 

“We’re stuck,” she grunted and wrung out her hair. “The carriage is mired in mud.” 

Just as she was about to sit back down, the door opened and Fíli’s face appeared in a flash of lightning. His long hair was plastered onto his head, water streaming down his beard. 

“You have to get out,” he yelled out, trying to be heard over the thumping of the rain on the roof. “Be careful! It’s a right bog out there.” 

Mîm blanched at the news, Eíli’s short excursion out the window having given her a foretaste of what awaited them outside and pulled her cloak closer to her body. 

Eíli rolled her eyes at her cousin’s squeamishness and jumped out of the carriage. Her startled scream was drowned out by thunder as her feet landed into a puddle of icy water. It poured in over the rim of her boots, trickling down her ankles in freezing rivulets. Eíli gasped and stumbled her way onto solid ground, dragging her soaked skirts through the mud. The rain pounded at her bare shoulders; within seconds, there wasn’t a dry spot left on her body. 

Mîm joined her soon thereafter, just as cold and uncomfortable, her woolen cloak become a hindrance once it soaked up the torrents of water that fell from the sky. 

Lightning struck once again, offering them a glimpse of the situation. The rocky hills and narrow valleys lay behind them, replaced by a vast plain with not a tree in sight to take shelter. Only low, scraggly bushes grew here and there, appearing between flashes of white light, and lingering before Eíli’s eyes even after darkness fell once again. 

The carriage was leaning to the left, its back wheel almost entirely swallowed by the mire; only the metallic rim glinted above the mud. Fíli and his men were trying to hoist it out, urging the ponies forward despite the beasts’ obvious terror, and using makeshift levers to lift the wheel over the puddle. 

“Now!” Fíli yelled out, motioning to another dwarf to push on the lever as he balanced it over a stone, one of the ends stuck between the spokes. 

The carriage groaned, the ponies scrambled forward, and the wheel emerged slowly from the water. Just as the bearing appeared above the surface, the dwarf slipped and fell, sliding under the carriage. 

“Nori!” Fíli rushed forward, grasping his comrade’s arm just in time to pull him from under the sinking wheel. 

“It’s useless!” the tallest of the dwarves hollered over the wind and the rain as he gestured towards the mire, water glistening on his bald head. “We can’t pull it out, Fíli, this is madness!” 

Eíli saw the prince’s shoulders slump in defeat and exhaustion before he recognized the truth in those words. Fíli trudged his way towards them, his boots squelching with every step. He looked utterly miserable, and Eíli couldn’t blame him. Her own teeth were chattering with cold, water sloshing around inside her boots. 

“We’re only two days away from Gurulazgoth,” Fíli declared as he pushed his wet hair away from his face. “We’ll camp here, and if the weather doesn’t let up, one of us can ride back to ask for help.” 

Mîm seemed relieved at the prospect, but Eíli’s stomach dropped in fear. Two days was more than enough time for Mother and Father to raise the alarm following her disappearance, determined to regain their property; not to mention Huldin, who’d seek retaliation against her for the theft she’d committed. The worst punishment she could face is to go through with the marriage, and once she was his… 

“Certainly not.” Picking up her skirts, Eíli took off towards the head of the column, without so much as a glance towards her cousin, unminding of the stabbing pain that flared within her belly at each step. “Thanks to those ruffians, we have spare ponies we can ride. Besides, we cannot risk waiting here until they catch up with us again, can we?” 

“But…” Mîm began, glancing uneasily towards the sinking carriage, “What about our things?” 

“Ponies can carry those too.” 

Since her cousin was proving unwilling, Eíli understood that she needed to appeal to Fíli’s good sense. She stopped in front of him, noting how he seemed to hesitate about whom to side with. It meant that despite his mistrust, Eíli could still sway him to see things from her perspective. 

“The men that ride with Fráin aren’t going to renounce so easily,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “I know what they’re capable of.” She rubbed her stomach, reminding him of Fráin’s bout of violence. “Do you really want to risk them coming back for your wife?” 

Fíli shot her a dirty look and shrugged off her hand, but the argument seemed to convince him. “No,” he agreed reluctantly, refusing to look at her, “It’s a risk I cannot take.” 

If he harbored some guilt about dragging his wife away from the relative safety of the carriage, he still gave the order to his men to unload Mîm’s things onto the ponies. The bald one, whom Eíli’d heard being called Dwalin, unharnessed them from the carriage, leaving it to sink further into the mud. 

Mîm bit her lip in anxiety. Eíli had managed to convince her husband, but if Mîm was to prove difficult and hold them back at every step of the journey, the pursuit could very well catch up with them; and that Eíli could not allow, not when her own life was at stake. 

She remembered the contents of Mîm’s letter to her mother, the very one she’d used to prevent her from running away with Fráin, and the dreams her cousin had described in the missive. 

“Besides,” she added at Mîm’s intention, “Wasn’t it you who wished for an adventure? The way I see it, riding a pony is much bolder than being pulled around.” 

Mîm shot her an uncertain look. “I don’t know how to ride,” she muttered once Fíli was out of earshot. 

“Here’s your chance to learn, then.” 

Eíli didn’t feel the need to state that only two days ago, she’d never ridden before either. 

The trip alone towards the ponies was trying, the mud sticking to her boots and skirts, as if trying to retain her in this wretched place. 

“That’s one mean bout of rain, eh?” the dwarf called Bofur commented, smiling at her miserable state under that ridiculous hat of his. He nodded towards one of the mounts, a shaggy beast that stood with its head hung low, looking lonely and disconsolate under the downpour. 

“This one here’s Lily,” Bofur said as he patted the pony’s neck, its fur spraying droplets as he did so. He had an accent Eíli couldn’t place. “She’s a sweet-tempered girl, you needn’t worry.” 

Eíli raised an eyebrow. “Do I look worried?” she asked haughtily, irked by his absence of deference towards her. 

Even given her current appearance, the other men of the group seemed intimidated by her looks, their eyes invariably drawn by the way her soggy dress clung to her figure when she’d walked amongst them. Fíli himself couldn’t help but look at her, Eíli knew, which only irritated Mîm more. Yet Bofur seemed indifferent to her charms, meeting her eyes boldly, without a glance for the rest of her person. 

“Nay, you look fierce.” He laughed. “You’re the scariest thing around here, thunder and all.” 

And with those words he turned around and left to help the others with their workload, leaving her stunned and speechless for the first time in her life. 

oOoOoOo

The night came and went, and still they pushed forward, dozing atop their ponies and depending on the kindness of their comrades to wake them before they fell off. The rain had subsided at last, replaced by a bitter stillness that made their breaths fog. 

Eíli’s renewed vigor at the idea of having to wait for help from Gurulazgoth had waned shortly after their departure, and soon she found herself shivering again. Her wet dress chafed against her thighs, caught between flesh and the leather of the saddle, and she could feel welts forming beneath the fabric. Her bruised abdomen protested at every movement she made; Eíli was certain she’d grind her teeth into dust by the end of the journey.

“You look awfully cold, lass,” a deep voice commented. 

She turned her head to see Bofur ride up beside her. He was puffing on his pipe, the smoke rising in pale volutes and mingling with his breath. 

“Do I?” she sneered, letting the epithet slide. Her teeth clattered audibly over the sound of the ponies’ hooves, and she rubbed her arms and shoulders, her fingers growing more stiff and painful with every passing minute. 

He watched her with pity. “Here,” he said as he pulled off his coat, “Take it. You need it more than I do.” 

He proffered the garment and it hung between them, worn-out and muddy. Under different circumstances, Eíli would’ve refused, balking at his charity and feeling insulted by such a shabby offering, but she was in no state to decline. She grabbed the coat, the residual warmth of Bofur’s body scalding her freezing fingers. The fur lining was soft against her scratched skin, deliciously snug despite the scent of him that permeated the garment, mixed with the smell of pipeweed and horsehair. 

“Thank you,” she muttered with reluctance as she pulled the coat closed over her chest. 

“You’re welcome,” he responded cheerfully, oblivious of her qualms and of the cold, smiling under his hat as if he had no care in the world. 

Just as she thought he was done talking, he squinted at his extinguished pipe and tapped it against his boot, emptying its contents onto the ground. “Can’t say I’m fond of rain meself,” he spoke matter-of-factly, “But it’s to be expected, at this time of the year.” 

Eíli remained silent, loath to encourage him; but that didn’t seem to deter him in the least. 

“Me name’s Bofur,” he continued, “Though you would’ve gathered as much, I suppose. And what’s yours?” 

She waited out a second, in case there was a “my lady”, or even a “mistress”, lingering behind, but Bofur only stared at her in expectation. A friendly stare, without a so much as a blink towards her chest or any other part of her body that could’ve drawn a man’s eye. Eíli narrowed her eyes in his direction, but her usual powers of intimidation seemed dulled by fatigue. Bofur returned her gaze, watching her patiently until she gave in. 

“My name is Eíli,” she snapped. 

“Lovely name.” He nodded in approval. “Noble, I reckon. But if you’re her cousin, I suppose that’s fair.” 

“Her” obviously referred to Mîm, and once again, no title or mark of respect preceded the name. Eíli would’ve seethed at such blatant rudeness, had she not suspected that Bofur treated everyone the same, including his own prince. Such manners marked him as low-born, as did his scruffy clothing. His scarred hands told her that his parents had been too poor to hire someone to teach him his trade, whatever it was. He’d learned it through trial and error, paying every mistake with a piece of his own skin.

“So, what were you doing with those lads?” He gestured to the silken skirts, now brown with mud, that flapped against the pony’s flanks. “I mean, you’re no marauder, are you?”

His cheerfulness was starting to get on her nerves. “How can you tell?” she snarled. “Didn’t you say I was scary?”

“Aye, lass. I’m spooked.”

He flashed her a grin and spurred his mount, riding off to join his comrades. Eíli watched him leave, relieved at the restored silence, until she realized that some of the warmth she’d felt until that moment had left with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: for those who remember, Mîm is the name of a male dwarf from The Silmarillion (he lived in Beleriand during the First Age).  
> However, considering that Tolkien didn't provide any rules about the naming conventions of dwarves, and the fact that he explicitly stated than dwarven women were very alike to dwarven men in appearance, it can be supposed that many dwarven names could be gender-neutral to reflect this similarity/ambiguity.


End file.
